


Oceans Rise

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Quest for Independence [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Alexander as Washington's Son, Alternate History, Anxiety, BAMF Women, Baby Animals, Bad Decisions, Borrowed Themes, Depression, Escapes, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Female Heroes, Friendship, God Save the King, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mad King, Mind Games, Multi, Non-Sexual Submission, Other, Power Plays, Ravens, Revolutionary War, Torture, Tower of London
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-20 02:10:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 110,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7386532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first war ends like it began.  With a dash of ink.  A scrawling signature. A sigh of relief.  There, isn’t that better now?  Things are done.  General Washington listened to the terms of surrender with no ability to accept them or refute them.  The decision had been taken entirely out of his hands.  "Thank you for your service," Henry Laurens demurred.  "But...the war is over.  It was a good fight.  And we lost it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Washington

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for joining me once again. Please note that there will be chapter warnings for individual chapters posted on relevant chapters. 
> 
> There will be weekly updates every Monday. 
> 
> As always, thanks to Asexual_Octopus for helping me get this story going, and to everyone else who assisted in my research and plotting.

The first war ends like it began.  With a dash of ink.  A scrawling signature. A sigh of relief.  There, isn’t that better now?  Things are done.  General Washington listened to the terms of surrender with no ability to accept them or refute them.  The decision had been taken entirely out of his hands.   _Thank you for your service,_ Henry Laurens demurred.   _But...the war is over.  It was a good fight.  And we lost it._

It’s easy to say that, Washington thinks, when you’re not the one in chains.

Clinton had been a fair jailor.  He’d kept his promise to Laurens that the _traitors_ were not to be punished until their inevitable trial.  But it hadn’t stopped Clinton from trimming the fat.  Washington didn’t need some of his ‘lesser’ aides.  Didn’t need to have them huddled together, planning for another revolution that would never come.

He was allowed to look out the window.  Watch as five of his men, good men, were lined up.  Ropes around their necks as they prepared for the long drop.  Grayson, Hopwood, Baylor, Trumbull, and McHenry the first day.  More after that.  Clinton may not have mistreated any of them prior to their deaths, but the inevitability of their ends at Clinton’s hands leaves a stain on his legacy as a sublime host. 

Washington sits on the floor of his cell, watching his boys slowly be taken from him one by one.  Hopwood, Humphrey’s, McHenry—Ludington.  Ludington who has twelve children, and yet still stands tall and proud in the end.  Letting them walk him out of his cell.  Shielding the younger aides a while longer.  Not fighting as he’s brought to the scaffold.  

The executions continue.  

Clinton’s prison is a macabre place.  Conversation falling swiftly, overtaken by the lingering sense of doom.  All thoughts fixated on the hangman’s noose.   _ Who’s next? Who’s next? Who’s next?  _ The cell door opens.  Another man, another boy, pulled from where they lay.  Until there’s only three left.  Three dirty faces staring back at Washington from behind iron bars.  Washington had started with eight times as much.  

His heart breaks a little more. 

In good conscious, Clinton cannot kill either John Laurens or le Marquis de Lafayette.  With John’s father acting as President to the Continental Congress...King George couldn’t ask for a more valuable hostage.  And to hang le Marquis….it’d be inviting conflict with France that the King similarly would rather avoid.  Washington’s known from the start that he’d have been killed first if that’d been on the table.  Which leaves Alexander.

His chief aide to camp.  Boy soldier with no title, no lands, no wealth, nothing to keep him protected.  He’s not a foreign prince, nor is he a domestic champion.  He’s a thorn in everyone’s sides, and Washington knows full well that _he’ll_ be the last to go.  

Washington watches the youth.  Twenty-four years old.  He’d been serving Washington since he’d been a teenager.  Throwing himself into fight after fight.  Running desperately forward.  Passing messages, commanding armies.  He’d annoyed every person he’d ever spoken to, and still they’d listened to him.  They’d had to.  He spoke for Washington, and no one dared break Washington’s command because an upstart just happened to be issuing them.

Alexander had fought bravely when the battle started.  When they knew from the start that they’d lost.  When the British outnumbered them 10 to 1.  He’d still unsheathed his sword, told Washington it’d been an honor, and fought until his body gave out.  Bullet snapping across his side and felling him far into the field.  

Surrender came not long after.  Washington had no desire to see his men die.  If his aides’ deaths had provided one thing...it had allowed hundreds of other men to go home to their loved ones.  The war was over, and all it cost in the end was the loss of Washington’s family.  A price, Washington suspected, the rank-and-file were happy to pay.

The bullet in Alexander’s side festered.  It bled badly and turned red and rough, fever taking hold almost immediately.  Washington half suspected Clinton felt there’d be no _need_ to waste rope on Alexander’s neck.  He’d die soon enough as it was.  But he hadn’t died then.  Even taken by fever and shivering badly in John’s arms, Alexander hadn’t died.

He’d managed to pull through, and come morning—all that effort will likely have been a waste.  “They’re going to send us to England,” Washington tells his boys.  Clinton had been implying as much for weeks now.  But word has returned to the colonies.  An answer to Clinton’s proclamation the war had been won.  “The King seeks an audience.”

It’s hard not to be bitter.  After all this time.  It’s hard to not find himself entirely unamused by Clinton’s or the King’s tactics.  So the King wanted to see them.  Now?  After all this time?  After years of conflict and ignoring advisors and petitions in parliament?  After Adams had languished about in court attempting to resolve the matters delicately?   _Now_ the King deigns to speak to colonists?  It’s infuriating.

John’s quiet at the news.  Alexander’s head is still resting in his lap, where it’s laid every night since their captivity.  Seeking warmth from John’s body as he struggles to breathe through the pain in his side.  The barred walls of their prison make it so that they are not all together.  John leans against a set of bars, Lafayette on the other side.  They sit back to back.  As close as they can, and Alexander rests with John.  All Washington can do is watch.  Watch as his boys are taken from him one by one.  As slowly yet surely, bad news yields only silence.  Resignation.  The time for fighting has, it seems, finally passed.

Outside, Washington can hear Clinton’s voice ordering someone to get back to work.  Deadlines must be met.  Arrangements made.  It’s going to be a long, arduous, journey.  And even with only a few prisoners...Clinton wants to ensure nothing bad could possibly go wrong.  Washington doesn’t blame him.  He’d respond much the same if given the chance.

He’s already resigned himself to the silence by the time John speaks.  Voice low.  Cracking a bit on the first vowel.  “Tell them he’s your son,” he grits out.  John’s arm tighten around Alexander’s crumpled form.  The young aide’s fever had broken two days ago, but the exhaustion hasn’t left.  He’s not had nearly enough food or water to substantiate his healing.  A kind maid had provided what she could, but there wasn’t anything more that could be done for any of them at this point.  Alexander’s body needed to save itself.

Lafayette sits a little straighter at John’s words.  He glances out of the corner of his eye.  Meeting Washington’s gaze.  His fair hair hung in tangled threads along his face, and he waits with an anticipation Washington had long since fled the man’s body.  “Tell them he’s your son,” John repeats.  Voice stronger now as he slowly eases Alexander’s head from his lap.  As he walks to the bars that line his half of the room.  One filthy hand reaches out and grips the iron tightly.  “They’re going to kill him.”

They are.  They’re going to kill him in the morning.  Why feed four mouths, when three work just as well?  Washington’s heart beats faster in his chest.  His eyes flick down to Alexander’s beloved face.  He’s a child.  A child caught up in a war that he managed to the best of his ability.  And he’s going to die tomorrow for a country that wasn’t even his to start with.  He chose this fight.  And he’d picked the wrong side.

“If you tell them he’s your son, if you _claim him as your heir,_ they won’t kill him.  They’ll need him.”  To control Washington.  To use against him in any future negotiations.  He’d live, but he’d live poorly.  He’d live in bondage and in chains.  John’s relentless though.  His face is twisted in a furious snarl, his eyes are flashing with energy Washington didn’t even know he had left in him.  “Tell them that he’s _yours,_ and he’ll live.”

Washington had sat idly by as member after member of his military family were led off to slaughter.  Had stood at the window and watched them hang.  Alexander’s unconscious.  He has no say in what’s about to happen.  But Washington’s tired of watching his boys die.  And Alexander...he’s a bastard orphan.  Unlike everyone else, Washington _can_ lay claim on him.  Can play pretend.

He nods curtly, and John’s hand slides from the bars.  Lafayette lets out a long breath of air.  Flurry of French curses or breaths of relief slide from his tone.  He presses a filthy hand to his too pale face.  John returns to Alexander and drops to the ground with a flop.  He drags Alexander closer to his body.  The younger man doesn’t wake.  

He has no idea he’s been made a prince in his sleep.

And no idea what his future has in store.

***

Come morning, John's bluff plays off.  Clinton hesitates.  He looks between Washington in one cell, and Alexander's crumpled form in the other.  He shifts his gaze between John and Lafayette, both on their feet and challenging.  Lafayette may not be in a position to help, he cannot reach John _or_ Alexander, trapped as he is.  But he stands regardless.  Back straight and lips pressed thin.  Glaring and threatening.

It's not the first time.  When Washington's boys were all first set in irons, Lafayette and John had held Alexander up between them.  Had snapped at anyone who tried to take him from them.  The others had closed ranks.  Keeping the dire state of Alexander's health a secret for as long as possible.  

This new lie only works because of how loyal they all are.  Because even though Alexander has a tendency to infuriate every man he ever spoke with, he equally has a talent for collecting fierce allies.

The lie works, because it's not the first time someone's wondered if it were true.  If Alexander reached his position because of blood.  Not talent.  If the deeper meaning behind Washington's choice in staffing came from familial loyalty, not an honest respect for a hard working young man.

Clinton chortles when the "farce" is revealed.  When the "truth" comes out.  "I should have him hung regardless," Clinton tells Washington.  It's a meaningless taunt.  What he _does_ is far more important to Washington than what he doesn't do.  What he _should_ do.  Clinton turns.  Tells the men their ship will have _four_ passenger.  He leaves them alone.  Spreading word to the people outside that Washington's bastard had finally revealed himself.

Squeezing his lips together, Washington tries not to think of his wife.  Tries not to imagine what her reaction will be upon hearing the news that _Hamilton_ has been declared his heir.  His first, and only, son by blood.  She loved Alexander when they met.  She found him sweet and charming.  Both things Alexander _could_ be when he bothered to try.  Usually, he didn't bother.

There's a difference to loving a boy you meet on a battlefield, and hearing news that that same boy was your husband's son.  Begotten in an affair and made true by Washington's declaration.  Clinton, John, and Lafayette all serving as witnesses to the decree.  Blood or no blood, it makes little difference now.  Alexander's his son.  And legally...he's protected.

Alexander wakes only moments before the guards come to escort them to the ship.  Dark velvet eyes blinking owlishly at the world.  John hisses something to him in the quiet way brothers do.  Shortened words that makes much sense to them, but little to others.  He grips Alexander's arm and hauls him to his feet.  Guides him and keeps him quiet as they stumble toward the ships.

Washington is made to lead, but he finds his mind drifting backward.  Wanting to keep his boys in his line of sight at all times.  People line the streets as they walk.  Shouting, booing, throwing food.  Alexander stumbles.  Washington can hear him trip, and John catching him.  Holding him firm.  Washington manages a quick look back, gratified to see Lafayette balancing and shielding them both.

He wraps his arm around Alexander's back. Hand gripping John's shoulder tight and squeezing it harder by the second.  Lafayette's always managed his temper far better than John, and the talent shows here. While he forces John into behaving, he keeps his expression neutral.  And John...John is tipping closer and closer to fury.

Washington redirects his attention to the path ahead.  To the gangplank under his feet.  The creaking steps that lead deep into the HMS Boyle's hull.  They're shoved unceremoniously into the bottom ethers of the ship.  Chained together, manacles clanking hard around their wrists.  Tied off with a great flurry of needless action.  Their jailor smiling as he actually _kisses_ the bloody key.  Sliding it into his front breast pocket as though he'd done something particularly clever.

The door to their 'dungeon' is slammed shut, and darkness descends.  Small circular windows, high above their heads, serving as their only point of light.  Alexander is curled on the ground.  One hand pressed against his injured side, the other steadying him on the floor.  He's blinking slowly.  Breathing hard.  Washington shifts.  Turns so he can look at him fully.

Alexander had managed to hold his tongue during the walk.  Even as shouts of 'Washington's bastard!' filled the square.  He'd kept his thoughts to himself.  Even as sweat began to slide down his face and the crowds jeered his noble bearing.  'Not used to hardship, is he?' one even dared to call him a 'little lord'.  Mocking and horrible.

"What...is going on?"  Alexander asks slowly.  He glares up at Washington.  Diminutive body coiling with righteous fury sorely misplaced.  He's preparing himself for a fight that will never happen, and Washington almost wishes they _could_ have this fight.  That it's a fight worth having in the first place.

He'd offered Alexander patronage in the past.  It'd been met with cold indifference at best, and fiery loathing at worst.  This, he suspects, will not go over as smoothly.  "Congratulations, _mon ami,"_ Lafayette tells Alexander.  Faux enthusiasm digging into fresh wounds as Alexander snaps his fury in Lafayette's direction.  "You're no longer a bastard."

"It's what you've always wanted," John continues.  Matching the dark snarl of Lafayette's tone.  Neither in the mood for playing games.  "You've finally a legal father.  Finally an heir.  And more importantly," John snatches Alexander's chin between his fingers.  Shakes his head firmly to ensure that Alexander was paying attention.  "You're still alive to complain about it."

He releases Alexander.  Slumps backward so he's leaning against the hull.  Arms crossed petulantly in front of his chest.  The revelation has not been delivered as kindly as Washington would have preferred.  Someone of Alexander's temperament...deserved to be eased into such changes.

The boy's looking at Washington now, though.  And the slight stirrings of irritation are...surprisingly mild.   _Practical,_ Washington reminds himself.  Alexander is nothing but practical.  There's no changing what's happened.  Washington can see him mulling over the implications of their actions.  Can see him coming to terms with the reality he's been given.

He's not happy.  Washington can see it clearly.  Alexander may never have discussed his upbringing, but Washington _does_ know he kept a strange thread of hero worship for the man he called 'father'.  The kind any orphan feels toward a parent who abandons them.   _Just you wait, I'll make something of myself and prove how good I can be.  Then you'll come back...and you'll want me again._

There's no father coming for Alexander now.  No parent capable of traversing the ocean to rescue him from the depths of King George's dungeons.  Whatever fate lies in store for them once they reach London, it's not one that a long lost relative is going to be able to restore.

Alexander's jaw works.  His tongue peeks out between his lips, then slips away.  He closes his eyes.  Struggles to sit himself upright, but only really managing to grunt in pain as he shifts his seat.  Slumps awkwardly to the left.  John catches him, pulls him back so he's leaning against John's side.  "I make a terrible son," Alexander mutters.

It's concession and self-deprecation in one.  Washington's not entirely sure how to respond.   _No, you're wonderful? You're all a man could hope for in a child? You've served me so faithfully for all these years, how could you think so little of yourself?_

He says none of it.  He may have taken the boy in as his, but he knows far better than to engage in a battle with Alexander's misery.  He's no intention of getting a tongue lashing, when the physical whip rests as a far too likely possibility in their future.

He doesn’t need to say anything, though.  John and Lafayette close ranks easily. _"You?"_ John drawls slowly.  "A bad son?  Say it isn't so." There's a slight ease of tension around Alexander's face as his lips threaten to dare a smile.

"He argues constantly," Lafayette sighs.  Letting his accent thickens as he counts off demerits on his fingers.  Manacled wrist clinking as he adjusts the chain. "Never satisfied with anything."

John makes a show of being dramatic.  "Just wants to be in charge, is that so hard?"

"It's not _his_ fault all the other Generals are idiots," Lafayette laments in return.

"And, honestly, he just wants time off to get married.  Is that too much to ask?" Even Washington's struggling to not find humor in their conjured complaints.  Though perhaps reminding Alexander of his new bride hadn't been the grandest of moves.  The faint hint of amusement on the boy's features snap away almost instantly.

His thumb pushes a circle around his wedding band.  His eyes flick to it miserably.  Married less than four months before his capture.  He'll likely never see his young bride again.  John and Lafayette sober quickly.  Silence settling about their number even as the deck hands up above are shouting and preparing to push off on their journey.

"I... _have_ been remiss in my duties as a father," Washington tries.  To the astonishment of all three boys.  "My behavior, perhaps not up to par."  He's not keen on whatever consequence Alexander could see fit to bestow upon him.  Knows full well that Alexander's sharp tongue can turn vicious if it suits him.  But the light hearted teasing had been more than Washington's heard in weeks.  If it'll restore even the slightest bit of tender affection in his family...he'll take it.

John and Lafayette both seem frozen.  Not sure how to proceed, or if it's even warranted.  But Alexander tilts his head a little.  Quiet and assessing, before sighing. Closing his eyes and settling in a more languid slouch.  Alleviating the pressure on his side while at the same time affecting an appearance of noble nonchalance. "The worst," he decrees.

It's all the motivation his cohorts need.  "Doesn't host, doesn't write," John starts.

"Doesn't _attend_ said wedding, only sends gifts."  They'd been nice gifts, Washington thinks, letting them continue to list his faults.  A fine mirror for the lady, a sharp blade for Alexander.  He'd given Alexander time to rush off the middle of a war they were losing, so he could court and wed his paramour.  It's more than many others had gotten.

"Always says 'no', always giving orders. Work, work, work, all the time."  They've gotten Alexander to laugh.  A quiet chuckle under his breath that ends with a grimace.  His right hand pressed tight against the wound.

It's warm down here.  Likely to grow warmer too.  Washington lets his eyes scan the ships bowels critically.  There's a faint stench of mildew permeating the air.  Water splashes about in a small puddle toward the center of the ship.  Cargo is stacked in lines across from them.  Offsetting the balance of the anchor that's coiled not far away.  It wouldn't take much, Washington thinks.  To murder them ruthlessly.  Tie them to the chain, drop it, and watch as their bodies are torn apart – meaningless weight compared to the anchor itself.

He feels his cheek twitch at the thought.  His nose scrunch slightly before settling.  The boys are still talking amongst themselves.  Inventing new twists to stories they all knew by heart.  Four years of service fighting side by side, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand.  It's hard to believe that this is how it will end.

Shipped back to England.  Recalcitrant cargo.  Washington shies away from the real term.  Shies away from calling their predicament exactly what it is.  He thinks, strangely, of Mount Vernon.  Of his wife, and her children.  Of their farm and the life they thought they'd live together.  Of Sampson.

Sampson's been in the colonies longer than Washington's been alive, but...he wonders if this was what it felt like to leave his homeland.  Pressed into the bowels of a ship, salt water taste in the air, the feel of wood pressing hard against his body.  Unforgiving.  Tormenting.  Boys, barely older than children, huddled close at his side.  Transferred and traded, in the end, because of betrayal.

Washington's nails dig into the flesh of his palms.  His teeth clench tight.  Pain blisters around his gums, aggravating the roots he has struggled with for years.  He lets up on the grinding.  He gives himself a few moments to fester on thoughts of Benedict Arnold and John André, then submitted those thoughts to the ether to be examined by God.

There's nothing he can do in regards to either Arnold or André...and reflecting on their duplicity would do nothing for him in the short term.  Not when his military family had been hanged.  When he only had three souls left.  He releases the tension in his shoulders.  Carefully arranges himself so he can observe his boys interacting.  Can content himself that for this single solitary moment, they have their health at the very least.

A loud shout up above and a sudden rocking motion.  Alexander goes as taught as a bowstring.  Washington has no words to soothe him.  The ship pushes free from the harbor, and they begin their long arduous journey across the ocean to England.


	2. Alex

It's not even Alex's first time traveling the underbelly of a ship.  The wood creaks loudly throughout the night, water drains down from the upper levels, and the smell is cloying.  But it's familiar.  It's something he's used to feeling.  His head aches badly, and he can feel his sinuses filling with mucous one horrid drop at a time.  It's still familiar.  It's still a memory of something he's already been through.

"Except it's a six-week journey to England," John tells him stiffly.  John, Alex has decided, is a _terrible_ traveling companion.  Each rock of the ship has him gritting his teeth.  Each shouted curse from up above has him grumbling unhappily.  He's got less to worry about than Lafayette who has never travelled on such unstable ground before.

For a man who's crossed the ocean no less than five times, this marking his sixth passage, Lafayette has been positively _green_ through much of it.  Each day is a constant battle for him to not lose what little sustenance he has within him.

Alex hauled him upwards at one point, grimacing still at the pain in his side.  He pulled him so he sat as straight as possible before jerking Lafayette's knees to his chest and shoving Lafayette's head through them.  "Just breathe through it," Alex told him uselessly. Air too thick with sweat and stench to just _breathe through it_ even if Lafayette wanted to.

The windows, small circular little niblets barely a foot wide in any direction, were locked down tight.  The only ventilation coming from the permanently closed door leading up to the main deck.  The air feels saturated with water.  Each inhale wetting their mouths and infiltrating their nostrils.

Sweat slips down from Alex's brow, draining toward his chin to drip onto his shirt.  His sleeves are properly damp from how often he's needed to rub his face against them, and still the moisture will not abate.  Even his wrists have a thin sheen of sweat permeating the surface.  Every shift of his arm pulls on the manacle wrapped around his limb, and chafes brutally at the skin made weak from soaking.

Bloody flakes have started bubbling up beneath the cuff, and Alex _knows_ they'll scar.  He knows they'll be there for years to come.  Symbols of bondage and servitude that will mar not only what's left of their good name, but also act as a reminder to anyone who came next.  Look.  Look what can be done to you.  You are not immune.

Lafayette's a proper Lord.  He's a _Marquis._ And yet his wrists are already rubbed raw.  His skin is already blotchy and floppy from sitting within the hull. Alex wishes there were good things he could say.  Wishes there were things he could do to make Lafayette's sickness abate, or John's fury to lessen.  But he can't do either, so he keeps a hand at Lafayette's neck and keeps Lafayette's head pushed between his knees.  Orders him to breathe.

Once the heat started, they'd tried as much as they could to spread out and avoid sharing in each others' warmth.  Even sitting beside Lafayette, bodies angled apart, joined only by Alex's palm, feels far too close.  Lafayette's body _burns_ beneath Alex's touch.  It shakes with trembling little fever shakes.  His eyes roam unceremoniously beneath his eyes.  He's heaving for air and miserable besides.

Up above, the Captain, a Mister Llewellyn, orders some lad to run them down some water.  Reminding the boy to fetch some salted meat while they were at it.  It's a fools gambit.  Alex spent enough time at sea as a child to know there's a delicate balance that needs to be struck between the carefully dried foods and the drink that washes it down.

They're too hot to stomach the salt.  The water, likely, is poor.  Wine or rum would be better, but neither would serve to assist their dehydrated bodies.  And with no control over when (or what) their next meal would be, there's little protest Alex feels like providing.  He gives Lafayette's neck one final squeeze, before drawing his hand away.

Sliding to the side just as the door snaps open and the horrible heat whooshes from the hull in a ferocious gust.  Cold air seeps downward, chilling Alex's legs immediately.  He flinches at the sensation.  Far too cold far too fast.  And even as his mind comes to accept his scrap of reality, it also grudgingly informs him that _at best_ the weather up above could be considered 'temperate'.  The 'chill' is imaginary.  It's relative.  The boy who snaps a bucket down before them is sweating too.  Though he does rub at his throat a little, clearly stymied by the thickness of the air.

"Father," Alex tries the word out, feeling his skin crawling all the same.  "You must drink, sir."

They've not spoken of it.  Not in the past six days since they left the colonies.  Not in the quiet recesses of night that loom overhead like a rope.  Not that the topic hadn't been on every one of their tongues.  Alex could see it in the way that John tilted his head toward Washington.  In the way Lafayette nudged his arm.  In the careful avoidance of calling anyone anything at all.

There are only so many euphamisms one can use in polite conversation.  Only so many times someone can gracelessly avoid calling anyone by name.  They'd left him sit and consider his new status, and he appreciated it.  But all the thought in the world would not prepare him for acceptance.  At least, not acceptance offered at knife point.

John, as always, is right.  He'd have died in the colonies along with—everyone else.  They saved his life.  And...he knows he should be grateful to them for it, but he cannot quite get over the sudden shift.  The way the ground feels loose and unsteady beneath his feat, which has nothing to do with how the ship rocks backward and forward without thought or warning.

Washington sits up from where he'd been slouching and does take a few sips from the bucket.  Struggling not to spill a drop.  Alex's mouth has never felt more parched.  His throat, never more tight.  He licks his lips and tastes only the salt from his sweat.  His General ceases, and meets his gaze over the edge.  And passes it into his hands.

 _This,_ came the closest anyone had come to talking about _it._  Because in a world where Alexander Hamilton was General Washington's son...he'd be next to sip from the water.  And that sets his nerves ablaze.  That makes his chest feel as though a great weight is depressing his lungs.  Stealing his breath far more than the heat.  His head spins dizzily and his fingers feel lax.

Twenty-five years of putting literally everyone else first make this far more difficult than it has any right to be.  It's a bucket of water.  And yet.  It's not his turn.  And there's far too much presumption in this.  But the boy is watching, and Washington is looking at him sternly, and though his stomach twists with nausea, Alex takes the bucket.  Manages a few sips that immediately feel sour within his gut.  He hands it to Lafayette.

"Give it to John," the Frenchman groans.  "If I hurl in his water I'm liable to be strangled, and as _appealing_ as that seems at the moment..." Off the bucket goes.  Alex's nerves continue tingling.  His fingers start tapping out a rapid pattern along his calf, growing worse the more he's kept still.

There's a choking form of claustrophobia starting to add on to the heat and the wet.  The pervasive darkness clings to his skin like a physical mar against his soul.  Twenty years of living outside or as close to outside as one can get, Alex has little patience for close quarters.  Particularly _enforced_ close quarters.

John finishes his turn and the bucket moves on for Lafayette to curl around.  The boy seems satisfied they've almost finished and walks across the ship to pull a few handfuls of jerk meat out for them.  The food smells horrid as its thrust before them.  Wrinkling flesh that's almost certainly turning foul despite all attempts to cure it.

Alex still tears a strip off with his front teeth.  Still chews it until his tongue feels just as shriveled as the sorry excuse for pig he's attempting to swallow.   _You've eaten this before,_ Alex reminds himself.   _It didn't taste this awful before,_ he thinks shortly thereafter.

The boy fetches them another bucket of water, but this time he leaves it for them to manage themselves.  No one touches it.  It sits like a promise for the future, and no one knows how long it will be before they get their next share.  They're not interested in letting it go to waste.

Lafayette presses himself as low to the ground he can and curls up.  Threatening to kick Alex if he so much as thinks about pulling him back upright.  Fine.  Let him suffer then.  Laying on his side like that, he's liable to choke, but Alex cannot bring himself to fight with him.  Not with John spoiling for a fight as it is, and his own head burning and aching for malnutrition.

"Wasn't how I imagined visiting London," Alex mutters.  Stretching his aching legs that want nothing more than to _run._  He'd give anything to be let loose off the chain.  Climb the netting and sit in the crow's nest.  Push rags across the deck, washing away the salt and grime.  He hasn't run the gambit since he left the Caribbean, but he knows how the lines work.  Knows the knots needed and the chores that have to be done.  He could do it.

What even _is_ the point of keeping them down here? There are four of them.  They're not going anywhere.  In the middle of the ocean, they'd either drown after throwing themselves overboard, eaten by sharks, or killed in any attempt for a mutiny.

They couldn't overcome the crew.  And even if they did, they couldn't steer the ship back to port.  There were no safe harbors left in the world.  Not unless they wanted to beg the mercy of the French.  Lafayette's banner men might assist them, but there'd be no escape from there.  There'd be nowhere to go.

This ship already makes the perfect prison.  The chains seem unnecessary at best, and absurd at worst.  He wants to _run_.  Even with his side still healing and his energy depleted, Alex cannot help the jittering desperation coursing through his body.  He's desperate for even a small moment of salvation, no matter how miniscule.

But the sun falls.  Night rises.  No one comes down for them and approaches to let them out.  The food doesn’t sit well in their stomachs, but they manage as best they can.  Struggling through the horrid heat until it finally breaks.  Until the humidity died down and John slumps to his side.  Snoring loudly while Lafayette groans and curls up around the empty bucket.  Catching splinters on his brow.

Alex can’t sleep.  He sits awake.  Rubbing at the freshly healed scar on his side.  Staring through the darkness.  Washington shifts.  His long legs stretching out slowly.  Grunting as the muscles twinged.  “Is there something I can do for you... _father?”_ Alex doesn’t refrain from using the word as a slur.  Dragging it out and putting as much disatisfaction as he can within the word.

His General sighs.  Closes his eyes and tips his head back against the side of the ship.  Shifting again and again in hopes of getting comfortable on the impossibly built ground.  There is no comfort here. "I know it's hard for you, son," Washington says softly.  Alex’s eyes flick toward the stairs, but there’s no one there.  Their voices are low enough not to matter.

Still. It's not a conversation he wants to have.   _Son,_ Alex thinks.  Washington doesn't even give him the courtesy of using it only when they're being spied on by their captors.  Instead, he’s started using it liberally.  Peppering his dialogue with it like it's an honorific Alex cares for.   _No._  Alex squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe.  

It's easy to be hateful when you're chained to your demons. And Alex has the words loitering on the tip of his tongue.   _I’m not your son_ .   _I’m not._  But his tongue is where they rest.  There’s no other man alive that Alex would find more honorable and respectable than General Washington.  Alex's ire...is misplaced.  Washington doesn’t deserve the vitriol building in Alex's chest.

It takes time to reform the argument.  Pull out some of the venom in hopes that it doesn’t break the fragile bond they have between them.   _Four years,_ Alex sighs.   _Four years of serving side by side, and now we’re starting again._

Rallying his thoughts as best he can, Alex shifts.  Maneuvers around John.  Letting their chains tangle as John grumbles and rolls to the right.  Alex squeezes between him and Washington.  Tips his head close so their brows are almost pressing.  Their words only for their ears. “James Hamilton…” Alex starts.  “I knew him.  For ten years.  I knew him.”

Washington’s looking at him.  His gaze feels as binding as the chains that hold them steady.  His expression calm and placid.  Months of beard growth has turned his chin into a scraggling mess.  His dark hair hangs in knots about his ears, but Alex can see the man he served behind the misshapen appearance.  Can see the man he _chose_ to serve.  

“He may have abandoned my mother and I to die in squalor, but...I knew him.”

To his right, Lafayette makes a gurgling noise in his sleep.  Reaches out blindly and tugs the bucket to his chest like a blanket in the night.  Alex wishes he had a blanket to toss over the man’s body.  He doesn’t have anything he can offer.  “He was a good man.  A good father.”

Alex can see the conflict lingering on Washington’s visage.  The doubt.  The statement he’s heard John tell him time and time again.  The offhanded remark Lafayette even made once.  The last time the topic had been broached.   _Good fathers don’t abandon their sons to die in the gutter._ “I can’t replace the man,” Washington tells him instead.  “But I can keep you alive until you meet him again.”

“You know they’ll split us up once we get to the capital?  There’s no reason they’d keep us together.”  It’d be too dangerous.  Too much of a chance for collusion.  

Washington nods his head.  Of course he’s thought of it.  He’s likely thought of everything.   “They’d have killed us already if that was their goal,” Washington says.  

Alex shifts so his shoulder rests against the older man.  He squeezes his eyes shut.  It’s dark beyond his lids.  Too dark and too unsettling.  “Dying is easy…”

“Living is harder.”  Waves splash loudly against the ship, and Alex swallows thickly.  He feels like a crushed bug. Pressed firmly to the ground by the sole of a boot, and still getting stepped on again and again.  Great force exerting on all sides and angles.  Washington squeezes his knee.  “But if you live...there’s joy to be had.”

It’s hard to not play the cynic.  Alex can’t help but scoff.  Twist so his shoulder leans against Washington’s chest.  An arm goes around his body.  Warming him.  He hadn’t realized how deep the cold penetrated.  But John wakes and blinks at them blearily, before crawling to Lafayette and holding him tight.  Pressing his brow against Lafayette’s shoulder blades as he settled back to sleep. “What joy?” Alex asks, watching his two closest friends.  Likely the last two friends he’ll ever have.

“You’ve a wife,” Washington reminds softly.  “You may yet see her again.”

Unlikely.  His dear Eliza would forever be a memory.  A sweet girl he’d thought he’d share his tomorrows with, but instead will only relish in endless thoughts of yesterday.  “And,” Washington continues.  “There’s always revenge.”

The comment is so unlike him.  Alex’s fingers twitch.  “What revenge could we possibly eek from this?”

“Imagine seeing Arnold hang,” Washington tells him.

“I’d rather see his head on a pike.”  His general sighs.  Annoyed, perhaps, by the visceral image.  Alex can’t bring himself to apologize.  How many _brothers_ had he lost?  How many soldiers?  Battalions?  How many widows and orphans did Arnold make? His General cannot make him regret speaking of violence, when _Washington_ first brought up thoughts of revenge.  

“Hold that image in your mind, then, _son.”_ This time, the word comes out as a promise.  A threatening vow.  “And bear with your parentage until we can achieve that goal.”

“It’s going to be hell when we reach England,” Alex mutters.

“Hold onto that too...because the longer we stay alive, the more opportunities we get.”  He pauses.  “And if there’s one thing I know you excel at, Alex, it’s seizing the _right_ opportunity when it comes along.”

He’s right, of course.  He’s always right.  And sitting here, chained to the hull of a ship, there truly is only one thing that Alex _can_ dedicate himself to.  Even if it take twenty years, some day...a mistake will be made.  And imagining Arnold’s fate, and the fate of all the colonies in the process, is far more satisfying than dreading the next mouthful of too salty meats.  Alex’s fingers tighten into fists, and settles in to wait.


	3. Lafayette

The ship docks in the harbor slowly.  Captain carefully turning the wheel so it slides into position carefully and without incident.  It’s not as hot today as it’s been the past few weeks.  Some of the oppressive heat letting up so the air down below isn’t nearly as suffocating.  Lafayette still struggles to wipe a hand across his damp brow as he draws breath.  Desperate for a chance to feel _normal_ again.

When a few men come blundering down the stairs to pull them to their feet, he almost sobs in relief.  So grateful to get off the floor at long last.  Their wrists are unchained, and immediately Lafayette hisses.  Sore and bruised flesh sparking against the blood that now flows naturally within his veins.  His fingers turn numb for a moment and he rubs at his wrists for several long moments.  Staring at the set of ringed flesh that encircles the bone.

The skin is harsh and puffy.  Red and abused. A purple line spreads out like crushed flower petals.  Puddling beneath the paper thin hide and destroying any sense of nobility his body might have maintained.  

One of the men reaches down and hauls him to his feet.  His legs scramble desperately.  Feet sliding about for purchase, but he can’t manage it.  His muscles have atrophied from so long without use.  He struggles to get his footing, and when he’s released—he falls.  The man laughs immediately, but Lafayette ignores him.  Spares a glance toward the others.

John’s managed to stay upright, but it’s a tenuous balancing act.  One that ends with him pressing his body against the hull of the ship and breathing hard.  Glaring at their _caretakers_ with unrestrained displeasure.  Would that he could tear them apart.  Rip them limb from limb.  Divest them of their sneers.  Lafayette would relish the sight of such things.

Instead, he holds out a hand to Lafayette, and helps pull him to his feet. Alex and the General carefully managing themselves.  Almost as soon as they’re upright, their chains are replaced by rope.  Looping around their abused flesh and tightly compressing their arms once more.  Lafayette sees Alex flinch out of the corner of his eye.  His right wrist already a mangled mess, worse by far than his left.  ( _Just what had that boy done to himself now?_ Lafayette wonders sardonically) And now the rope surely made the injury worse.

It wouldn’t be for long, Lafayette knew.  They’d have the bonds removed once they knew what was going to happen to them.  Likely after King George provided his sentence for their crimes.  Still, every minute in the ropes hurts more than the weeks with the chains.  The fraying fibers tear at their skin.  Itchy and uncomfortable even without the constricting pressure.

The General is pulled into the front once more, and he goes without complaint.  Feet stuttering beneath him and nearly tripping up the stairs, but he manages something close to his regal walk not long after.  Lafayette envies his surety in his footing.  It takes far more than a few steps and a set of stairs to get _his_ legs working properly.  He feels like a newborn colt.  Limbs not quite working the way they’re supposed to.  Joints clicking about in place when they should be doing so much more.

Once they’ve been herded onto the deck, they’re instructed to stand still for a moment.  Wait as the gangplank is readied for their walk of shame through the capital.  Already, Lafayette can hear the people coming to observe the ship and the sailors’ arrival.  He doesn’t care about any of it, though.  He’s too busy angling his head up toward the sky and feeling the sun on his face.

His eyes _burn_ in the light.  They sting so sharply he can feel tears forming along the corners.  His nose plugs immediately as his sinuses stop up.  His face prickles against the sea breeze.  He can’t smell anything, but he imagines what London smelled like the last time he’d been here.  Steaming meats and sweat, a faint stale odor that coats everything, mopped up by the permanent coating of rain.

It always rains in London.

That reminds him...blinking through the blinding bright of the sun, Lafayette looks to Alex.  Their little lion.  It probably couldn’t be worse, but here he is.  His first trip to Europe.   _Hope it’s a good one,_ Lafayette thinks savagely as he inspects Alex’s response.

His eyes are wide and incomprehensible.  Tears _have_ streamed from his lids, the sun a cruel mistress, but Alex doesn’t seem to have noticed yet.  He’s trembling where he stands.  Rocking back and forth on his heels.  Tongue keeps flicking out in a mad attempt to wet lips that will not be wet.  Alex scans the city, peers across it to the Palace.  Anticipation clear on his face, offset by a curious amount of awe.

Lafayette can’t help but wonder if this was what Alex looked like when he first arrived in New York all those years ago.   _“You should see Paris,”_ he tells Alex in French, smiling at him when he meets his eyes.   _“Far more beautiful than London.  Far less..”_ he holds up his hands.  “ _Constraining.”_

Alex snorts.  Biting his lip to keep from providing a full laugh.  It’s a good look on him.  Even with his hair turned dark with filth and his child’s attempt at whiskers, his smile is still infectious.  Still well worth the energy to try to push forward.  

Henry Clinton appears like a ghost, and all good humor fades immediately.  “Hadn’t realized you were aboard... _sir,”_ John seethes.  Clinton rolls his eyes.  Nose held high in the air.

“I’m escorting you to our King,” Clinton replies.  He circles them, inspecting their appearance and attire.  After six weeks at sea with a bucket shared between them for filth, and not nearly enough ventilation from the heat, they’re a horrible mess.  

Once, John had pointed to a small black and white creature roaming about the outskirts of their encampment.  Had told Lafayette the charming creature belonged to Martha Washington, asked if he could fetch it as John was currently occupied.  Lafayette had.  He’d chased the damn critter all through the woods in hopes of securing the beast for his General’s wife.  And then it had upended itself and _sprayed_ him with the most foul odor imaginable.

John had laughed himself hoarse for days.  Even after Lafayette had beaten him bloody for his teasing.  He’d laughed even through the ‘fight’.  Hysterical in the face of all of Lafayette’s fury.  Washington had been less amused by his antics, scowling at how the odor followed Lafayette around for weeks.  Barring him from handling any documentation for fear that the smell would travel with it.

Lafayette’s relatively certain that the horrid little thing John had sent him to fetch _still_ smelled far superior to their current state of being.  He hopes their scent clings to Clinton for the rest of his life.  That he reeks with it long after his perfumed baths and freshly laundered clothes are draped adoringly around his shoulders.

The gangplank smacks against the cobblestone landing, and Clinton’s men close ranks around their party.  Ordering them to march uselessly.  They’re all more than aware of what they need to be doing.  Washington pulls his head up high, and leads without a word.  He doesn’t look back.

Alex trails not far behind him.  His gait is slow and awkward.  Still trying to work the kinks from his legs. But soon he’s taking more purposeful strides.  Knees raising a bit higher than is strictly necessary.  Stretching out his muscles and mixing misery and relief together.  Relishing, clearly, in the freedom to move, but struggling with the need to do so.  John occasionally nudging him forward.  Murmuring words Lafayette misses as they proceed.

The streets are lined with the King’s subjects.  Dressed in fancy clothes, dressed in plain clothes.  They turn to whisper to each other.  Mocking and divisive.  Not as rowdy as the American crowds at least.  Lafayette doesn’t see a single stray vegetable flying in their direction.  Either they care more for their food than their sending off party had, or they simply couldn’t be bothered to participate in such barbarism.

There is no stopping the gossip however.  Lafayette can hear them mentioning their names.  Can see them looking at the state of their clothing.  This walk is meant to disgrace them.  Dressed as poorly as they are, looking as unkempt as they do, surrounded by guards, it’s almost comical.  Lafayette’s half tempted to smile and flirt.  Wink at the ladies he passes and wag his brows at the men.  If they mean to shame him, then they’ll find no such feeling here.

He refuses to give them the satisfaction.  “The last time I was at court, they had trumpets playing in my honor,” he muses loudly.  John’s head turns, glancing at him with a slightly scrunched face.  

“Don’t think they’re playing in your honor now,” he advises sagely.

Certainly not, but Lafayette has little doubt that they’d start playing soon enough.  Celebrating Clinton’s victory.  Rubbing it in their faces that they lost.  That they will continue to lose because there is nothing left to gain here.  Lafayette shrugs his shoulders carelessly.  He takes a quickened half step so he falls between Alex and John.  Keeps his grin on his features as he distracts them from whatever fate they’re imagining for themselves.

His friends shift to give him more room.  Their guards glare at them.  Unimpressed with their behavior, but Lafayette couldn’t bring himself to care less if he tried.  “The King’s kitchens do make an excellent lemon cake,” he reveals.

“Of which you will likely receive none,” John laments.  “Such a shame for you.”

“You wound me, sir.” Lafayette doesn’t have any time to say another word, as the clear blaring of silver trumpets fill the air.  Ladies and gentlemen of the court are now peering over bannisters to watch their procession, and Lafayette draws himself up straighter naturally.  He misses whatever John says in retaliation.

Alex stumbles up a couple of steps, and Lafayette snatches him by the arm.  Bound hands making the attempt awkward.  Still.  He keeps him on his feet, and that’s good enough for now.  “Made with butter and sugar cane from the Caribbean,” he continues.  His hands are tight around Alex’s arm.  The boy’s face has started to turn a touch pale.  Sick around the edges in a way Lafayette’s more than familiar with.

His stomach still hasn’t settled from their journey. While the fresh air has certainly helped, he can feel its queasy nature loitering in the back of his mind like a reaper’s scythe.  Standing and moving helps shift the excess acid into more palatable positions, but it’s likely only a matter of time before the nausea become unavoidable once more.  “They serve each cake on a porcelain plate.  Painted by the artisans in Italy or France.”

“You know a lot about cakes,” John continues gripping.  He’s irritable when he’s unhappy.  Thus far, it’s been his permanent state of being.  It’d be nice, if they only had a few moments left in each others’ company to _not_ be miserable and dreary.  Though Lafayette doubts they’ll manage it.

He nods his head toward John in any case.  “Soft and spongy,” he explains.  “You’d find them fun to squish, I’m certain.”  John’s head tilts a touch.  Considering.  “Or throw,” Lafayette adds, because despite being the wealthiest heir in all of the Americas, John has the table manners of a drunk in a backroom brawl.

The final tease _does_ earn him a brief smile.  Gratitude present even though it vanishes soon after.  One of the guards has had enough of their idle chat.  Strikes Lafayette against the shoulder _hard,_ forcing his knees to buckle and both his companions to catch him.  Washington’s steady pace comes to a halt, and he twists to observe.

“We’re not stopping,” Clinton orders, and a hard hand at Lafayette’s spine shoves him forward.  “And stop talking.”

“No cake for you,” Lafayette grits out.  Scowling as he manages to pull himself back up straight.  What little joy he’d manage to make out of the situation has long since fled, and Lafayette watches as his companions direct their attention to the ground beneath their feet.

One step forward, then another.  Then another.  The effort had been mostly futile in the first place.  Lafayette hadn’t truly believed he could have eased their concerns.  Six weeks at sea hadn’t lifted their spirits, and finally walking into the palace wouldn’t have made things better.  Even if their words are outlawed, Lafayette is in no mood to follow Clinton’s orders in their entirety.

Alex has never been to the palace before.  Never been to anyplace quite so grand.  Even with conversation forbidden, Lafayette has no trouble nudging Alex’s arm and motioning toward beautiful sights.  Stunning architecture.  Paintings that document the figures of so many generations of monarchs.  

The boy’s studious.  He’s brilliant.  He’s read about the palace and he’s written about London in his missives.  He’s studied the city and the history of Britain.  He knows each monarch by name, and can give anyone a lesson on each man’s political theory.  He is distracted easily by a painting of Elizabeth I.  Eyes growing wider and wider with each new image or bust.

Good.  

For while he walks, he doesn’t notice the path they’re taking.  The direction they’re being led to.  The halls that they’re crossing over.  Even if he did have some intimate knowledge of the Palace, it doesn’t provide him with any context.  They’re going directly to the throne room. And Lafayette’s hopes of being allowed to wash prior to their audience are entirely dashed.

King George did like his theatrics.  Judging them as they stood, derelict and improper...Lafayette knows nothing would make him happier.  They’re halted right at the doors, and Clinton orders them to wait.  Then he dips into the room and is announced properly.

At the sound of the herald, Alex’s attention snaps back to the present.  His breath catches in his throat.  “Walk steady,” Lafayette tells him.  “Do not meet his eyes, and keep your back straight.”  Lafayette has no notion if they’re to bow or not.  Courtesy would dictate that they do.  Proper gentlemen would.  But...this is an unusual circumstance and it would depend on Washington’s behavior.  “More than anything...do find it within yourself to keep your mouth closed?  Yes?  The both of you?”  He says the last bit to John.  Though not usually as impulsive as Alex, it’s the same as saying a starving wolf was less likely to attack you than a starving lion.  Both were equally liable to cause more harm than good in the long run.  Neither should be tempted.

“Just…” he sighs.  “Wait until you’re spoken to at the very least?” They reply in curt nods.  Half whispered promises that Lafayette can only hope they mean sincerely.  In front of them, he inspects their General. He can almost see the man’s mind turning.  Cogs and wheels.  Rotating round and round as they attempt to piece together an understanding of what their future will look like.  Proper rebels wouldn’t.  They’d stand defiant.  But they’re not proper rebels.  They’re hostages at best.  Fit to be ransomed or kept as examples.  Used against the colonists as a sign of what they mean to the world at large.

The doors are opened wide, and they’re told to march.

King George sits high on his wooden throne.  Dressed in the finest fabrics a king could wear.  Reds and golds shimmering even from across the hall.  Lords and Ladies, Princes and Princesses, are all lining the sides of the throne room.  Hands delicately clasped before them or behind their backs.  The ladies whisper as they walk.  The men sneer.

Washington draws in a deep breath.  Lafayette watches as the man pulls himself up.  Posture snapping to military discipline without so much as a hint of a falter.  His chin tips slightly toward the ceiling.  His spine stacks one vertebrae atop another.  His shoulders sit planely.  His body locks tight with noble bearing.  Lafayette taps Alex with the toe of his boot.   _Watch,_ he longs to say.   _Mimic._

But words are meaningless.  Alex _is_ watching, and if there’s something Alex is good at, it’s making it work.  Although his breathing is not the same measured pace of his General’s, Alex manages to affect the same general position and standing.  John and Lafayette quickly following suit as they follow Washington across the hall.

In all their years of working and serving at each other’s sides, Lafayette’s quite certain that he’s never seen anyone look more regal than Washington in this moment.  It’s not the baubles and the cleanliness, it’s the mere command of presence.  It’s how, when he walks forward and lets the room truly see them for who they are, the assorted guests follow Washington with their eyes.

And they fall silent.

King George watches their approach.  He sits further upright in his chair and he peers down his nose at them.  He carries none of the subtle confidence that Washington keeps deep within his chest and heart.  He looks almost like a lounging doll, tossed within a chair with no thoughts in his head except lying still and looking pretty.

Allowing others to move his limbs for him.  Arrange him into patterns so he may sip tea and provide a superficial level of comfort that does not extend to hearth and home.  That does not extend to happiness that builds slowly yet certainly throughout the body and soul.  

There are three great tile squares that mark the distance from where a man should stop walking, and the stairs that lead to George’s throne.  Washington only stops when his toes reach the very edge of the line.  And he does not bow.

Alex falls into a faint approximation of a parade rest, same as John.  Neither capable of shifting their hands into the correct position, but their feet finding the distance either way.  They keep their bodies perfectly taut.  Soldiers to the last.  Lafayette finds it far less necessary.  He’s not here because he’s a soldier.  He’s here because he’s ransom.  And as someone who’s well used to how this court works and operates, he knows precisely what his position in life is.  How he stands will not affect _him._

“So,” George laughs around the word.  Proceeds to chuckle for several seconds more.  Each guffaw echoes about the throne room, until he settles.  Shaking his head in open amusement.  A few others have joined in, but their echoes are awkward and uncertain.  As though they aren’t sure if they’ve been given leave to do so or not.   _“You_ are the great General Washington.”

“I am, your Majesty,” Washington replies with little inflection.  Calm.  Calculative.  Watching and waiting.  Forming his own conclusions, Lafayette is certain.  There’s anticipation in the air.  Six weeks at sea and three months in a prison cell in Virginia has given them all more than enough time to think about how this conversation would end.  

“And who are these then?  More members of your, what did you call it?  Oh, that’s right. Your _family.”_ Alex’s breath hitches at George’s tone.  Lafayette taps the side of his foot against his friend’s subtly.  Neither his nor John’s temper needed to flare at this moment.  Not yet.  Not before George had his way.  The taunt is meant just as that, a taunt.  One that Washington’s in the place to respond to, not them.

His response is slow, measured.  Carefully worded.  “My military family, yes your grace.” And what a family it _had been._  Alex at nineteen teasing John through all hours of the night.  Lafayette sitting with them around the fire as Ben played the fiddle and William tapped out a beat on his legs.  Then, equally, riding breakneck across a battlefield swords and guns at the ready.  Shouting orders.  Following commands.  Staying awake at all hours of the night to write missives.  Wishing well to those who needed to take up the midnight ride to other encampments.  Avoiding spies and threats on all sides.  Trusting only those within their unit.  Their family.

George laughs again, and John’s cheek twitches.  The pause before the storm, and Lafayette knows neither he nor Alex will be able to hold onto their tempers long enough to let the King say whatever inflammatory comments he’d like to say.  “But also your real family too, no?” One of Clinton’s men shoves Alex forward so he stumbles to Washington’s side.  John’s muscles are coiled.  Preparing to explode into action, and Lafayette knows it’s improper, but he holds firm to John’s arm.  It matters not who sees him restrain John.  Only that John stays put.

“Wait,” he hisses sharply against John’s ear.  

George pays them no mind.  He shifts his weight from one hip to the other.  Lifts an elbow to rest against the arm of his chair, leaning his face against his palm.  He keeps his ring and little finger curled down, but the middle and pointer arch up the side of his face.  His thumb cups under his chin.  “You’re the bastard,” George surmises.  Amusement evident.  

For once in his life, Alex keeps his mouth closed.  Lafayette can only just barely make out the side of his face.  His jaw is clenched, his eyes are tight.  He’s trembling from the effort to not speak.  To not make things worse.  George scoffs.  “Well speak up, bastard! Or are you only good for glaring?”

“Yes,” Alex barks back, almost cutting off the king’s words.  There’s a dose of lethality hidden within those cracks.  Lafayette squeezes harder on John’s arm.  Not caring if he bruises his friend.  He can feel how John’s desperate to do something.  Say something.  Be involved.  Alex can handle himself.  Says, “Yes, I’m the bastard,” cold and impersonal.

“Well,” George hums.  “I’d always assumed you impotent, _Washington.”_ Lafayette’s digs his nails into the fleshy bend of John’s elbow.  Hard enough he can feel John’s pulse beneath his hands.  He lets up when John’s proven he’s not going to get involved, but the threat remains.  “But then, I suppose like the rest of your precious colonies, even _you_ can cock it up at least once.”

The King explodes with laughter once more, and this time the court joins in.  Celebrating the hysterical irony that does nothing but make John seethe and Alex’s face turn the darkest shade of scarlet Lafayette’s ever seen. “I’ve never known greater joy than calling Alex my son,” Washington replies cooly.  Oblivious to how that same boy to his left is staring at him now.  Eyes wide and lips parting just enough to convey his shock.  “I’ve never doubted him.  Never distrusted him.  Just as similarly, I’ve known no better joy in life than being an American.  I don’t doubt my people.  I don’t distrust them.  I wouldn’t call any of that a cock up... _your grace.”_

“And so here we are,” George allows.  “You, playing martyr over a bastard you won’t call a bastard.”  He flicks his hand to the right, and several members of his personal guard stride forward.  Lafayette’s heart beats faster in his chest.  It’s a physical effort to keep John still.  One he’ll not succeed with if John tries hard enough to escape.

Alex is plucked from Washington’s side. Shoved to his knees in front of the King.  Head bowed just a little as to hands push against his shoulders to hold him in place.  Another man steps in front of Washington, hand on his chest in warning.   _Don’t move._

“How old are you, bastard?” George asks.

“Twenty-five.   _Sir.”_ It’s the wrong honorific.  Whether he’d used it intentionally or not, it doesn’t matter.  It earns him a brutal blow across the side of his head.  John makes a wordless shout.  It echoes through the hall and Lafayette has to jerk mightily to hold him in place.  All subtlety completely lost as George cranes his neck to inspect them both for the first time.

“And you must be Henry Laurens’ heir.  My, my.  You certainly have grown.”  John doesn’t respond well.  His face is twisted too much to say anything, and Lafayette’s doing everything in his power to keep him from making matters worse.  “Though I must say, the true marvel of this spectacle is _you,_ Marquis.”

George finally stands.  Pushing himself from his throne and descending the stairs.  Cloak flopping backwards onto his seat imperiously as he approaches.  “Whatever _were_ you thinking?  Abandoning castle and fortune, land and prestige...to join this?” The King makes a vague motion toward John’s decrepit state.  Washington’s soiled clothes.  Tsking as he roams his eyes up and down Lafayette’s lack luster appearance.

“I was thinking, your Majesty, that your colonies were being misrepresented in your government,” Lafayette returns smoothly.

“That doesn’t affect you.  None of it does.  You’re a lord from _France._ And unless I’m very mistaken, King Louis hasn’t declared war yet on England.  And your involvement...well superceded any of their interest in my colonies.”

“As you say, your Majesty.  My interest in your colonies was my own.”  It doesn’t answer the man’s question.  But Lafayette has no interest in answering it now.  No interest in spending the time to discuss political theory with the King.  Not when this is a holding pattern.  A staging ground.  A performance.

King George wanders around them in a great circle.  Sneering and letting cruel comments land without caring if they hurt.  He merely speaks to speak.  And he’s used to speaking.  Shaking his head, George smiles brightly and stands on the first step leading to his throne.  Only a scant few inches from where Alex is still forced to his knees.  

“The colonies are mine.  The war is over.  And...I’ve decided to be benevolent to my subjects.”

Benevolence didn’t come in the form of twenty-three bodies hanging from a rope outside the prison windows.  It didn’t come in the form of slaughtered soldiers who’d been killed in their beds when Arnold opened the gates to West Point.  It didn’t come in the form of terrified boys who were executed after the white flag was raised and no one paid it any mind.

It didn’t come in the form of a King who pushed his people to revolution in the first place.  “The colonies serve at the pleasure of the king, and so to do you.  General Washington you are irrevocably stripped of all lands and titles, you’re nothing here.  Someone will have been to Mount Vernon by now and removed you wife and her family from your home.  I do so hope they survived their encounter.” Washington’s posture breaks. The hand on his chest becomes less of a warning and turns brutal.  Restraining him in place even as John hisses curses at the King.  “Marquis you will find no allies here, and you’ll serve at my court under my express direction until I deem your ransom to be sufficient for the trouble you’ve caused me.”

Adrienne.  They’ll go to France and barter with his wife in an attempt to secure all the wealth she has in order to reclaim him.  Her father won’t allow it.  She’ll be powerless to make such a decision, and George _knows_ it.

Still the king continues.  Entirely unmoved by John’s hostilities or Lafayette’s growing awareness of just how the next few years of their lives will play out.  “And you, Mister Laurens, you’ve a father who’s already agreed to pay me a handsome sum each year just to keep you alive.  It’s almost like how taxes work, isn’t that funny?” It’s not.  But George smiles anyway.  “And it’s far more than your dear General can do.  Afterall, he has _nothing_ to trade away for his son.”

“Alex,” John breathes out.  Lafayette holds him back.  Even as he lets his eyes drop down to their dearest friend.  “Alex--”

“—Take the boy,” George commands.  “Put him to work down below.  If he’s so eager to be a colonist, then he should live like one.  Cut his hair and brand him.”

 _“No!”_ John surges and Lafayette’s fingers don’t hold him.  Lafayette’s not even certain he tried to hold on at the end.  Not that it matters.  John’s snatched roughly before he makes it four strides.  Hands holding him back.  

“That _is_ what you colonists do, isn’t it?”  George asks meaninglessly.  “I’ve heard so many stories of how you treat your slaves.  This _is_ how it’s done, is it not?”

 _“No!”_ John shouts again, fighting desperately.  Alex’s dragged to his feet.  He’s more pale than the white of the King’s ermine cloak.  His eyes are wide and wild.  His legs give out beneath him.  He’s being hauled upright.  Dragged back.

John’s screaming his name, and it saps the last of Washington’s resolve.  Washington shoulders forward, Lafayette at his back.  It’s a useless maneuver.  There are too many guards.  Too many hands ensuring that they don’t even make it a foot closer.  Alex manages to get John’s name past his lips.  ‘Laf’ following not long after.  He doesn’t get to say much more.  If the had more words to speak, they’re swallowed up by John’s desperate calls.  By the chaos started by Washington attempting to break the line.

The General looks to the King, and George sits on his throne, cloak wrapped warmly around him.  “You brand that boy and you will regret it,” Washington tells him. Steely calm.

“I’ve never regretted anything in all my life,” George informs him sweetly.  “The Colonies and all her inhabitants are mine.  My people.  My subjects.  My slaves.  They do as I command.  And that _boy_ is no different.  If you thought you were anything else? Then you’re a fool Washington.” He flicks his wrist.  “Take him to his new rooms.”

John’s shouts have continued all the while, threats now slipping from his tongue.  George huffs.  “And for the love of God, _shut that one up._ ”  Lafayette doesn’t have time to stop the blow, but perhaps it’s better this way.  A club cracks against the side of John’s head, and he crumples to the ground in a heap.  He’s unconscious as Washington and he are dragged away.

Leaving Lafayette standing alone before the King.

“Now, Marquis.  I do believe it’s time we had a discussion on your position in court, don’t you?”

Lafayette’s fingers burn.  He wants to tear something apart.  He wants to scream and rage.  He wants to watch as the King suffers for what he’s done.  What he’s still doing.  It doesn’t matter.  In this particular game, Lafayette has no more cards to play.  He can only force a smile, and wait for the next hand.


	4. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: depictions of the horrors of slavery, period typical racism that is revolting and obscene, child abuse, torture, non-consensual bathing, aggressive hair cutting, mental health trouble
> 
> Please note that all depictions of slavery in this story are not justified and are not glorifying. Slavery in all its forms and enterprises is wrong and is a horrible and unforgivable crime against humanity. The events discussed are events from history that have been brought to a fiction context to reinforce how utterly tragic and unforgivable such things are. As well as to serve as a reminder of what certain individuals, who were in support of slavery, were in support of as well. As well as vice versa as needed.

John’s room is a small, sparsely furnished, area.  He can walk the width in four strides.  The length in six.  It takes him twelve seconds to walk the entire perimeter in a circle, accounting for wandering around the bed.  He counts each second on a loop.  One, two, three, four, five...then repeats it again and again. Pacing counter clockwise, then clockwise.  Then repeating it in every pattern and iteration he can think of.

There are seventy two wooden boards that make up his flooring.  There are six hundred and twenty four stones, of various sizes, that make up the walls.  The ground is cold during the evenings, but warm during the day.  He can smell food wafting up during meal times from the kitchens.  Though he doesn’t know how far away he is from ovens and the chefs.  He can only hear a few faint rumbles of conversation down below.  Nothing he can truly make out.

John circles the room again.  The King provides for everything.  There’s water in the morning.  Food twice daily.  A young serving girl brings his food to him.  Knocks at the door twice before unlocking it with an iron key she keeps on a string around her neck.  Two soldiers stand guard at his door.  As if he’s going to strangle her and attempt to escape.

He’d never make it out of the Tower even if he tried.  And he wouldn’t try.  He has no notion as to where his General, Alex, or Lafayette are.  No idea where they might be hiding.  He doesn’t remember if the King had said before they’d all been separated.  Just remembers seeing Alex’s panicked expression as the horror of reality came crashing down upon them.

Turn.  About face.  Start going the otherway.

There’s nothing to do in this room.  No books.  No letters.  He could attempt to scratch into the wooden frame of his bed with his fingernails, but he doesn’t quite think he’s at that level of seclusion where he can justify such a thing.  The window looks out over the grounds.  London lays beyond a high wall.  Ravens patrol the grassy yard between the wall and the Tower.

During the war, there'd been a tree.  Tall and white.  It sat in a field that they’d camped at for several weeks.  The camp had been rather unremarkable all things considered, but the tree stayed in John’s mind.  Ravens, or crows, filled its branches.  The birds called through all hours of the day, driving him near mad with the sound of it.  He’d hated the damn birds.  Would have done anything to be rid of them. 

He never wanted to see another corvid again, and yet now he spends his hours watching them flutter about outside.  The only distraction being the serving girls who won’t speak to him.  They rotate out on shifts, and John loses track of their order.  Of which one's meant to come next.  The lack of conversation is bothersome, though  John supposes it’s because this is the Tower of London.  Supposes really, that it’s appropriate.  Here’s a place for traitors to live and rot and die.  Why  _ would  _ the servant girls talk to him?

All he has left to do is pace.  Reach the wall, turn around and go back the other way.

The door opens, and he turns, fully prepared to argue his case to whomever the King decided to send his way.  The argument is resting on the tip of his tongue.  Reared up and fully prepared to be lashed out against the unsuspecting servant. 

Only. 

It’s not an unsuspecting servant.

It’s his wife.

John knows he must look a fool.  Mouth hanging open as Martha Manning steps through the door.  She’s dressed as a maid, is holding food in her hands, and she closes the door behind her with a kick of her heel.  She looks...different. 

“Well I’m not pregnant,” Martha tells him evenly.  

And.   _ Okay,  _ John thinks.  _ I probably deserved that.  _ “You’re…” words fail him.  He has no idea what he wants to say to her.  Has even less of an idea as to what she means to say to him.  She tilts her head at the window, and he goes.  Quiet and half dazed.  He’s still trying to come to terms with the idea that she was  _ here.  _

“Eat,” she orders.  He stares at the food. 

“What is it?” 

“Food.”  It smells like she cooked it.  And he tells her as much.  Nose scrunching, she curls her hands into fists and sets them to her hips.  “You’ll eat it and you’ll like it, or you won’t get anything else.  Say ‘Thank you.’”

_ “Thank you,”  _ he gripes.  Cross an ocean to fight a war and hope to die in battle, all while avoiding your wife, and what do you get?  The literal ball and chain.  Martha rolls her eyes at him and looks about the room. 

She  _ does  _ look different though.  Baby aside.  Her hairs a little less proper.  Her clothes are more worn.  Her fingers look like they’ve been scrubbing floors for years.  Blistered and calloused over.  She’s got a dark tan to her skin, like she’s been working outside.  It doesn’t look right.  

Martha Manning was a proper girl.  A  _ Lady.  _  Her father kept her in jewels and fine dresses.  She didn’t dress like a maid, nor carry it about her shoulders like it really were reality.  He takes a hesitant taste of dinner.  He was right.  It’s awful. 

Judging from the blush on her cheeks, she knows it is too.  She’s ashamed.  Biting his tongue to keep from hurting her feelings  _ too  _ much, John tries to work out what exactly is happening here.  “Do they know…” he trails off.  Not sure where to start. 

“I’m your wife?” she finishes.  “No.”  Sighing, she sits down on the window seat beside him.  “Strangely that didn’t come up when they hired me.” 

“And when was that?” 

“Six months ago.”  After the war ended.  Her father’s trading business would have been ruined.  His allegiances would have been called into question.   _ Damn it all.  _ “Frances is okay,” she tells him. 

Right. 

He has absolutely no idea what to say to that.  She gives him a disgusted look.  “Your  _ daughter.”  _

“I know who Frances is.”  John feels a stab of irrational anger overcome him.  He knows who his daughter is.  He knows she exists very well, and she doesn’t need Martha to explain that to him.  Just because he’s never seen her, doesn’t mean he doesn’t  _ know  _ her.  Or at least, know  _ about  _ her.  “I’m glad she’s okay.”  He is too.  He’s not expressing it right.  He still feels like he’s ten steps behind.  With no idea what’s happening or why.  

Of all the scenarios that he imagined to occur, this isn’t one of them.  Eating another spoonful of slop, he swallows it down with the nausea.  Grimacing as he squints at the bowl.  Some of the hostility fades out of his wife’s demeanor.  She sighs and settles into her seat.  They sit shoulder to shoulder, and John tries to remember if there’s ever been a moment where he’s actually understood what to say to her. 

They were friends once. 

A long time ago.  Before daughters and wars and nights they both regret.  He used to tell her made up stories, and she used to show him how to sneak around London without their parents finding out.  She’d been with him when his brother died.  When Francis Kinloch hadn’t been able to get there in time to console him.  She’d at least sat with him while he tried very hard not to feel like it was all his fault. 

She hadn’t been successful. 

But she’d tried.

She’d been there when Francis had left his company for good too.  And she hadn’t said a word when he wanted to name their daughter after a man who abandoned him.  All things considered, Martha Manning deserved more than what he's given her.  He...hasn't been fair to her.  And he knows full well his current status didn’t make things easier. 

“The other servants didn’t want to come,” Martha reveals.  “They think you’ll tear their throats out with your teeth.”  Always a possibility.  John bares them for her inspection.  She nods her head sagely.  “Very terrifying.” 

John feels a hysteric desire to lean his head against her shoulder.  Like a child seeking comfort from their mother.  She’s not his mother, he’s not a child, and with everything else that exists in their lives...it’s entirely inappropriate.  He’s given her hell. What mutual benefits their union may have wrought are meaningless.  Each benefit is also mutually destructive.  Together...he and her are a mess.  They aren’t friends.  “Why are you here?” he asks her quietly. 

“No one else would come.”  

Hardly.  Martha doesn’t do anything unless it benefits her in someway.  “So you took it upon yourself to see me?”  

“You’re the father of my daughter, John.  I’m not going to leave you here to rot.”  Money, then.  She’s run out of money.  Especially if she’s needed to take up being a maid.  Maybe she sees it going her way if she manages to secure his freedom.  Not that that will happen any time soon.  “You are  _ such  _ a colossal idiot,” Martha sighs.  Standing up, she smooths out the folds of her dress.  The scratchy cotton doesn’t need it.  It didn’t wrinkle.  “I’d rather not let them know we’re related…” 

He nods.  He doesn’t need her to tell him that.  She’s put herself at risk enough as it is.  “Martha—”

“It’s ‘Mary' actually,” Martha tells me.  “Couldn’t exactly go by my real name.”  

He supposes not.  There’s something strangely ironic about her using ‘Mary', though he can’t place what it is.  Still… “You shouldn’t come back.” He’s never once managed to control what Martha does once she’s decided to do it.  She scowls at him. 

“Try not to get  _ too  _ lonely in here,” she tells him shortly.  “Someone else will be back for your plate.  Don’t kill anyone.” 

That she even feels the need to tell him that makes him smile.  At least they still understand each other.  Whatever that means.  She locks the door behind her when she leaves, and later— a different servant girl comes and collects his plate. 

The new girl is stiff and mean and glares at him.  She’s unhappy and unfriendly.  Refuses to engage in conversation, and doesn’t seem interested in his well wishes that she has a nice day.  He thinks up several rude things to call her, and commits them all to memory to share with Martha when next she visits. 

She doesn’t visit. 

John’s half convinced he’s made her up.  Invented her in a moment of madness.  Aside from the other servant girl, there’s been no one here.  No one coming and going.  No one to talk to.  No one to learn more about.  He hasn’t read a letter, hasn’t had access to any kind of information about what exists beyond the four walls that surround him.  

He wants to ask about Martha.  Wants to know if they’ve seen her too.  

John walks the room four more times before throwing himself down to sit at the window.  He tries to tell himself he’s not looking for Martha.  But it’s a lie.  He stares outside and watches everyone as they walk past.  The soldiers, the common people, the servants.  He rubs at his shoulder absently.  Needing something to do with his hand that will settle the energy that’s been building up in a cacophony for so long.

There’s a strange sense of irony about all of this that John hasn’t yet been able to shake off.  He cannot help but think of General Cornwallis.  Of how, after Arnold decimated their forces at West Point, their only hope had been to try to capture or kill as many men as they could who were high born.  How they’d fought long and hard to capture Cornwallis.  

John and Alex slid through the dead of night to steal him from his bed in the middle of camp, with Lafayette waited not far away.  He’d been hissing mad, telling them how foolish they both were.  But it had been a victory nonetheless.  One that didn’t matter one bit.

Because no sooner had they captured Cornwallis did they receive the news.  John’s father had been captured attempting to convince Holland to join the war.  The trade took months to negotiate, but in the end, Cornwallis was shipped to London and Henry Laurens was shipped back to the colonies.

John presses his fingertips more firmly against his shoulder.  Pushing at the muscles and molding it into place.  He can’t help but wonder if his father had resided in this very room.  It seems like the kind of thing the King would find humorous.  Knowing that not only had he collared Henry Laurens once...but he’d now tricked Henry into giving over obscene amounts of his wealth to pay for John’s continued survival.

He, knowingly or unknowingly, had John’s wife, playing servant. 

There’s a certain amount of sadism there that John finds repugnant.  It clashes ferociously with the memories of crushing defeat that welled up when Henry’s capture became known.  For the first time in years they had a solid victory, and they lost.

They should have let John’s father rot.  Better that than lose Cornwallis.  Lose the good that having Cornwallis could have done for them all.  But Washington gave the order.  Through clenched teeth and heavy heart, he gave the order.

And now John’s in his father’s prison cell.  Irony at its finest.  He cannot help but be amused.  If sickly so.  John leans his head against the window.  Trying to control his heart rate.  It’s been rising in tempo.  Beating faster and faster as his anger rose.  And yet there’s no point to it now.  

There’s no point in thinking about Alex’s face as he was dragged off.  In imagining where he is now or what he’s going through.  Henry showed John how to brand once.  Years ago.  Back before his father found slavery to not be as cost effective as he would have thought.  He dragged John by the arm and put him in front of one of the boys.  Explained how this one kept running off, and needed to be taught a lesson.  Needed the world to see just who he belonged to.  So he would never do it again.

John’s ears still ring from the screeching.  Can still remember how he begged his father to stop, how the boy had shouted and screamed.  Thrashing so badly that the brand blurred some.  Overlapping around the center.  Rings intersecting.   _ “Stop your crying, Jacky.  Learn to be a man.” _

It’s nothing compared to what Alex told him.  About what slavery looked like on Nevis.  When they were curled up at Valley Forge and talking through the darkness in the night, minds a bit dulled from drink.  Limbs seeking heat in the dark.   _ “They’d line them up, side by side,”  _ Alex had said.   _ “And work their way down the line.  Usually on the chest, here,”  _ He pressed his palm to the skin above his right breast.  _ “Though once...once I saw them press the brand to a man’s face.  He screamed so loud they whipped him to be quiet.  And when he wouldn’t be quiet, they whipped him some more.”  _ Alex trailed off then.  Quietly only adding,  _ “His heart gave out in the night.  No one seemed to notice.” _

Man's inhumanity to man.  That anyone could look at another human being and consider them  _property_ escaped John's realm of understanding.  That someone could hurt someone like that just  _because,_ felt awful and wrong.  Yet here they were.  Nothing has changed. 

John tapped his head against the glass of the window.  Harder and harder.  Eyes closing as he breathed through his teeth.  Hissing air out in long streams.  Ssssssssssss.  Whistling almost at the end.  It’s not fair.  It’s not fair.

He taps his head again, harder this time, and nearly jumps out of his skin when the window taps back.  There, sitting on the other side of the glass, is a raven.  Fluttery black throat feathers.  Angular tail.  The raven tilts his head to the left and right.  Blinks at John, and then taps against the glass with his beak.

John’s never seen a raven this close before.  There were crows back on his farm growing up.  And he’s seen them from afar.  But he’s never had the chance to look at one like this.  He lifts his fingers to the window, and the raven taps again.  So he taps back.  Smiling when the pattern is repeated.

It caws.  A deep throaty sound.  Muffled by the glass, but not entirely made silent.  “Hello,” he greets softly.   The raven tilts its head about.  Caws again.  “If you’re waiting for me to die, it’ll probably be a while,” John warns the bird.  Its wings flutter.  Shifting and stretching before folding behind its back once more.

There are footsteps in the hall.  Martha?  The raven’s head keeps tilts left and right.   John waits.  Anticipation building.  Hope flaring horribly in his chest.  It’s not time for food or water, but the steps come closer.  Closer.  A key slides into the lock.  No knock this time.  The door opens.  His raven it turns and flies away.  John’s distracted from the door.  Turns to watch the bird go.  Wishing it’d come back.  

It doesn’t, and so John turns to see his guest.  It’s not Martha. 

The man before him is tall.  Shrewd.  Dark hair with late-evening beard growth despite it being the early afternoon at best.  He peers down his nose at John as though he expects that John cares one way or another about his opinion.  With completely sincerity, John has little trouble saying  _ he doesn’t.   _ “Stand up,” the man orders.  John’s ears tingle.  Goose-flesh erupts along his arms.  He does as he’s commanded.  Squinting at the man before him.  “You’re far smaller than your father,” the man tells him, keeping his tone clipped.

He strides forward and snatches John’s chin between his thumb and index finger.  John immediately slaps an arm out to knock it away, but he’s held firm.  Backed up until his head collides with the stone wall behind him.  “But you’re just as lily-livered as he was, ain’t you?”

“A gentleman would do well to introduce himself,” John manages to spit out.  Heart pounding faster and faster in his chest.  The man huffs.  Shoving his head back once more so it hits the wall a second time.  

“Ain’t a gentleman and neither are you, boy.  You’re scum of the earth, same as the rest of them.  And the lady been complaining ‘bout the smell.  So.”  John blinks, not understanding what precisely he’s talking about. Martha?  His face is released, but his hands are quickly snatched up.  There are more footsteps in the hall, and John tries to track them all.  

His body is moved without his permission.  He tries to fight, but there are hands everywhere.  His arms, his hips his shoulders.  He’s slammed down to his knees, and he can feel the stabbing pain as it slides up and down his legs.  He hisses as he’s pushed down farther, heels digging into the swell of his bottom.

One hand wraps firmly around his hair near the base of his head.  “What the hell are you doing—” John hisses, but a fourth man appears.  Fingers wrap around his throat and he chokes.  Staring up when his hair is used to pull his head back, and gagging on breath that won’t come.  The first man holds a knife in front of his face.  Grinning for a moment before pinching the beard John’s beard and carving it from his body.  Removing strip after strip.

The long curved point tips close to his eyes each time the man gets close.  The hand on the throat squeezing him firmly and giving him no place to move.  Holding him relentlessly steady as his beard is shaved and tossed to the ground.

When it’s done, John’s almost convinced that that’s it.  They’ll be finished with whatever strange interaction this is, and he’ll be given leave to move.  But he doesn’t get the freedom.  The hand around his long hair starts shifting, pushing his head forward and adjusting its grip.

The knife is placed between his scalp and the man’s hand, and John cannot even flinch for how tightly he’s being held.  He doesn’t have the breath to beg them not to.  Can only sit there as the man with the knife starts to saw through his impromptu ponytail. Sending thousands of pin pricks explode painfully against the back of John’s skull. He hisses in pain.  Twists against the hands holding him down.  Trying to jerk free or do  _ anything.  _ But the knife keeps cutting and cutting, until he feels his hair being shorn completely free.  Knows without looking that his mane now lies close against his neck.

The hand around his throat lets up just a little.  Gives him time to draw breath before wrenching him closer for someone to peer down at his scalp.  “Don’t know, think he’s got lice too?” One wonders.  John jerks.  He doesn’t.  He  _ knows  _ he doesn’t.

He tries to get his legs out from under him, but can’t.  His own weight is trapping him.  Forcing him to press down on his knees and not move.  He doesn’t have enough strength to push off with his thighs.  And they’re holding him upright just enough that he can’t slide his legs free to kick.  “Let...me go,” John grits out as best he can.  The fingers around his throat squeeze just a fraction harder.

They ignore him.

Rough fingers jerk at the shortened strands.  Pull them as far away from his scalp as they can before bringing the knife back down.  Cutting close to his skin.  He can feel tears forming in his eyes.  He tries to twist back, but his arms are twisted.  Pushed into a breaking point where all he can concentrate on his leaning forward and staying still.  Trying not to aggravate the joint or give them cause to truly break his arm.

The hand on his throat stays constant, it squeezes down more and more firmly, and then just as John’s head is going dizzy — it lets up once more.  John’s eyes blur as he feels lock after lock of hair being shorn from his scalp.  Not surprised in the least that once the last strip of bloody hair falls to the ground, the hand doesn’t leave entirely.  Simply shifts to allow John to be maneuvered.

He hardly has time to catch his breath before the men step to the side and he is thrown into the bucket of water someone’s set up just for this purpose.  Immediately he thrashes, a hand holds his head down into the water for several long seconds, avoiding his haphazard swings, but soon  _ does  _ let him up.

He’s thrown backward, crumpling onto the ground as he chokes and coughs.  Curling to his side and coughing harder and harder.  He cannot quite get the feeling of water out of his lungs.  It’s coating everything.  It’s in his eyes, up his nose, down his throat.  He gags and gags.  Trying as hard as he can to catch his breath.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, rough hands tear his shirt and breeches off him.  He hardly realizes what’s occurred until the water is back.  Pouring all over his head and body.  A rough cloth rubs brutally at his skin.  He flinches and jerks, still struggling for air.  Dizzy and losing his balance.  He can’t manage to open his eyes.  Manage to get a look around him.  His arms pull awkwardly, but there’s no strength behind any of it.  

Whenever he starts thinking he might finally be able to see past the fluttering black spots in his vision, the hand is back.  Squeezing and squeezing until he’s sagging back down into an exhausted heap with no strength left in him.  Vaguely he’s aware that there are other people coming and going in the room, but he cannot see them.  Cannot look at them.  His head feels empty and exhausted.  

He’s redressed and thrown onto the bed.  Someone tells him at least he’s somewhat presentable now.  He cannot bring himself to try to work out what any of that means.  He’s losing his fragile grasp on consciousness, and by the time the door slams shut behind them, he’s not aware of having been left alone in the first place.

John wakes in the morning.  He takes inventory.  His hair is gone.  Only small patches of stubble line the top of his head.  Offset by cuts and trails of of dried blood.  His clothes have been changed and replaced with a fresh linen blouse and loose fitting breeches.  The bedding, has also been replaced.  Floors scrubbed and window cracked open.

Sitting by the window is a single solitary mug filled with a small bit of water.  In it, is a dandelion sagging over the side.  John stares at it for hours.  As the sun rises high in the sky and no other sounds penetrate the tower.  Then he gets up, snatches the weed from its mug, and squeezes it in his fist.

He starts walking the floor.  Counting seconds as he goes.

Martha— _ Mary— _ doesn’t come back.  He hates that she chose now to listen to him.  It’s not what he wanted. 


	5. King George

The longest locks of John Laurens’ hair are tied up in twine.  Set off to the side of King George III’s desk as he debates what letter he intends to send.  The lords had quietly offered their insight as to what should be done with John Laurens, and he’d informed them, loudly, that John was not their concern. 

John and the bastard were brats.  Children to be scolded and taught to heel.  They were unimportant in the long run, and so their status and necessity were hardly going to matter in the short term.  Henry Laurens would stop sending funds soon, and when he did— John could join the bastard in servitude if that’s what he wanted so badly.  As to what the Lords needed to feel, their opinion hardly mattered to George.  They did not rule George’s kingdom. 

George left the lock on his desk for nearly a week, though.  Enjoying how it sat there beside the parchment packaging.  Address already scrawled on front.  Twine coiled closeby.   It looks messy.  George would be the first to admit it.  He knows it looks messy.  But that’s not why it’s fun to keep. 

Any man who knows their letters should have little trouble determining who the package is for.  Even less trouble making the connection as to who the hair belongs to.  Blood still stains the locks as a reminder of what Henry Laurens has to lose.  John’s hair is just a unique enough mixture of browns and golds to stand out amongst its copper stain. 

The Marquis, of course, knows his letters.  And as the days pass, George finds a great deal of amusement in propping his legs up cushioned stool.  Watching as the Marquis pretends to not notice the lock of hair.  Where it’ll be sent to.  The first day, admittedly, had been the most entertaining.  George had sat with a book in his lap, the Marquis waiting in the corner as patient as any page boy, when Gregor brought the lock inside.  Holding it up for George to examine before settling it on the desk. 

The Marquis had tracked it all with a hunter’s gaze.  Posture stiff.  He hadn’t said anything.  Hadn’t gotten involved.  Had kept his stance and eventually flicked his eyes away and studiously stood at the opposite wall.  As was his duty.  

Every day after, it became a game.  George watched as the Marquis tried to ignore the hair.  Tried not to ask the question George knew he wanted to ask.  Settling deeper into his seat, he flicked a hand toward the door.  “Fetch water for a bath,” George told the Marquis.  Bored of his subordination already. 

The frenchman murmured a  _ by your leave,  _ and quickly exited the room.  Settling his book to the side, George walked to his desk.  Lifting the lock, he squints at it speculatively for a moment.  

Tangled and filthy, George half wonders if they should have cut it _after_ they’d washed him.  It hardly matters now.  Changing into a loose robe, he slides the lock into his pocket and then made his way toward the bathing chamber.  The Marquis is there, organizing the room and managing the hot water being collected.  

He’s a graceful one.  Long smooth limbs and a delicate complexion.  He’d been far too pale when he’d first arrived, but now that he’s spent some time moving around the Palace his skin has taken on a healthy pallor.  His hair is neatly combed and tied back with a silk ribbon.  George has provided no powder or wig for him to maintain the illusion of being a lord.  George had meant what he said.  The Marquis is his servant at his court.  If he’d like to  _ play  _ at being a Prince, he could do so once he’d paid his debt. 

As of yet, fair Adrienne’s pleas haven’t nearly been sufficient.   _ Those  _ letters George has been far more careful about leaving lying around.  The Marquis doesn’t need to see letters from his lady love.  Particularly not when it came to discussing how much he was worth to the French Crown.  No, those conversations could come later. 

For now, he held his hands to the side and waited as the Marquis approached.  Unbinding George’s robe with sure fingers.  The Marquis had been trained in this at some point.  Likely as a child.  The importance of learning how to tend to your superiors.  Proper little lord growing up in a proper home.  

He keeps his eyes tastefully averted, and George waits as the Marquis fully removes the robe and slides it into place on a hook.  He offers an arm as support, and George accepts the assistance gratefully.  Climbing into the bath and nodding in appreciation.  Blissfully warm, but not too hot. 

“There’s a soap in my pocket, fetch it for me.”  George couldn’t care less about the soap.  But the Marquis goes anyway, reaching from one pocket to the other, freezing when his fingers touch the lock of hair.  Withdrawing it with the bar George had requested.  Holding it in the palm of his hand.  

With his eyes downcast, it’s hard to judge his feelings on the matter.  George waits patiently for the reaction, but it’s a long time coming.  “Well hurry up, boy,” George snaps.  Scowling as he shifts in the water. 

Dark eyes raise and peer at him with narrow minded calm and focus.  The Marquis steps closer and hands him the soap.  Returning the hair to the robe pocket with the most tender of care.  He retreats to his place by the wall.  Hands folded behind his back.  Waiting to be summoned again. 

“You’re far more dull than you used to be,” George informs him shortly.  

“If you believe so, your majesty.”  He speaks with the same bland attitude as the members of the House of Commons.  As Angelica Schuyler had after her family’s execution.  George scoffs in distaste.  It took months for the girl to start behaving appropriately again. At least recently she'd shown some life in court.  He'd enjoyed her prior.  Her grieving period truly does need to end soon. 

Glowering, he fetches the wet cloth from the tub and tosses it at the Marquis.   “Do your duty,  _ boy.”  _ George watches the Marquis slowly bend down to pluck the cloth from the ground. As he slides closer to George’s tub and bends to wet it.  

“Where shall you prefer me to start, your grace?” the Marquis asks, accent slowly looping around his ears.  George holds out an arm and the boy sets to it.  Rubbing his cloth on the soap before carefully applying it to his skin.  

Steam rises from the tub.  Filling the room and dampening the Marquis’ face.  Shirt sleeves dipping into the bath occasionally when he’s careless.  Sweat slides down the boy’s face, and George memorizes how one droplet in particular makes a path that trails all the way to the Marquis’ collar.  Disappearing behind the fabric.  “Tell me, did you love your John in  _ your French way?”  _ George asks. 

The cloth doesn’t stop its path.  Merely continues on.  The Marquis leans closer, taking care to not miss a single spot.  His expression doesn’t falter.  “I am French,” the Marquis admits calmly.  “I love him,” he dips the cloth into the water once more. “It is in my own way.” 

George scowls.  “Did you ever cut his hair?  Tend to him as a lover?” he leans forward and snatches the Marquis’ wrist.  Squeezing it between his fingers.  Feeling fragile bones shift within his grasp.  He’s thin.  Far too thin for a man of his stature, he’s not eaten enough.  Good.  

The rooms set up for the Marquis were functional and practical for a man of his status.  But his food was set aside on a budget from the crown.  Itemized on a bill that would be forwarded for dear Adrienne to finance.   _ He  _ was smart enough to realize this and had already modified his diet appropriately.  George let him do as he pleased.  It changed nothing from the paperwork.  Adrienne would be none the wiser to her husband’s attempts at charity. 

“I’ve not,” the Marquis replies.  Keeping his eyes to the side.  Appropriate.  So very formal and _appropriate_.  

“He was a pretty little thing,” George admits, smiling as the Marquis’ fingers tighten around the cloth.  It’s rubbed against his chest with no increased pressure.  Just the same gentle pace that George could find no fault in.  “And beneath that beard, his face is almost feminine, is it not?” 

John had been asleep with George had last been at the Tower.  Curled in amongst the sheets, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapping around his body as though he were trying to hold himself.  Provide  _ himself  _ with an embrace meant to comfort but never would. 

His face had been slack in sleep.  But his neck had tilted enough for George to review his visage.  Pretty arches around his cheeks.  Subtle divots beneath his eyes.  “Four years you served with him?” George presses.  “And you never once took him as anything more? Felt his body beneath yours?  Tasted his flesh?”

“It’s a sin,” the Marquis replies, though his voice is too stiff to be unemotional.  To bland to be nonchalant.  

“One men like you never cared to obey.”  George sits up, shifts so he’s sitting chest to chest with the boy.  His captive continues looking away.  Eyes fixed solidly to the left.  Toward the robe.  The hair.  George can’t help but grin.  “He didn’t scream,” he reveals.  The Marquis’ throat moves, but he makes no sound.  “In fact, from my understanding, he even washed after.  Was provided with fresh clothing and bedding.  Benevolent, don’t you agree?”  he says nothing in return.  “I did say I’d keep him in good repair for his father.  Do you not trust me?” 

“A king does as he will, your grace,” the Marquis tells him.  Daring, just for a moment, to meet his eyes. 

George slaps his hand out, striking the boy so his eyes fall back to the side where they belong.  “Your bastard screamed, though.  Loud enough, they heard him in the White Tower.  Wailing like a child the whole while.”

“That’s what happens when a brand is pressed against flesh, your majesty.  It hurts.”  the Marquis starts washing again.  Sliding the cloth down George’s opposite shoulder.  “As you said, there’s always an exchange.  One action causes another.” 

“Something you colonist…. _ sympathizers _ seem to often forget.” That Lafayette had even joined the war in the first place still baffles George.  Asking the man point blank is like trying to capture smoke.  He doesn’t answer.  He navigates away.  And George hardly realizes he’s been evaded until hours have passed and he looks back on their conversation in review. 

But this time, the Marquis shakes his head.  “I understand how the game is played, your Majesty.  That to get something you want you need to sacrifice something you...wouldn’t necessarily like to give up.” 

George considers it.  The argument is a repetition of his proclamation in the throne room their first night.  Servitude for benevolence.  Assistance for taxes.  “And are there things that  _ you  _ want?  Boy?” 

The Marquis doesn’t answer.  Just continues rubbing the cloth down the arch of George’s arms.  He carefully cradles George’s hand so he could attend to George’s fingers.  “Things you’d sacrifice for something you want?” the King pushes.  He snaps his fingers around the Marquis’ wrist and pulls him closer.  “What do you want boy?” 

“Whatever you’ll give,” the Marquis responds.  Though his eyes are challenging and his expression daring.  

“Let’s play a new game, shall we?” George asks.  He stands.  Water having long since grown tepid.  The Marquis turns his head fully to the side, his face far too close to George’s nethers.  To his credit, he doesn’t look once.  George steps from the tub and wraps his body with a soft towel.  Dries his skin as the Marquis stays kneeling.  

When the robe is securely around his shoulders, tied off to the side with a latch, George approaches the boy.  Slides his fingers through his hair. Jerking him forward so his face hovered over the edge of the tub, collarbones pressed against the sides, George squeezes.  “What’s something you want?” 

The Marquis stares down at the water before him.  Takes his time in processing his request, but when he does, he says it in calm clear tones.  It’s a foolish request.  Something so benign and absurd that George laughs.  Clenches his fingers harder amongst the locks of the Marquis' hair. 

“Drink this until I tell you to stop, and you have my word—your request will be granted.”  He releases him, and settles back on his heels.  

The foolish boy doesn’t even hesitate.  He dips his mouth to the filthy water and starts to swallow.  Disgusting.  George cannot even begin to understand how someone could want something  _ that  _ badly.  But the boy is determined.  Continues swallowing the salty and bitter spa water without pausing. George takes his time. Waiting a good long while before he even once considers to tell the Marquis to stop. 


	6. Washington

Washington can see the whole courtyard from his window.  The great stone steps that lead down to the grassy knoll below.  The wall that stretches the expanse from one tower to the next.  The chapel is right in front of him.  Offset only by the square block that he’s learned about in history books.  Old stories adults tell children when they’re huddled together for warmth in their beds. 

Patsy had liked them.  When she’d been too ill to rise from her bed, too ill to stand and attend to her duties, she’d longed for a good story.  He’d fetch her every book he could, give her something to occupy her mind when her fingers trembled too much to address her needlepoint.  If he couldn’t sleep when night came, he used to sit beside her.  Pull her close to his body, one arm wrapped around her back the other securing her to him.  Safe and sound. 

_ Tell me a ghost story,  _ she’d beg him.  Martha would tsk and shake her head at the little girl’s requests.  She’d insist that such things weren’t appropriate for ladies, but Washington hadn’t the heart to deny the child.  She’d lost so much in life...been ill for so long.  Who was he to deny her any source of relief or joy that she could gain from a tale of misadventures?  Of fallen heroes?  

Martha never understood Patsy’s reasoning, but Washington could furrow it out.  Over the years, when his beloved step-daughter grew only more ill, becoming even more dependent on the medicines that never seemed to provide relief...he understood.   _ It could always be worse.   _ She may be caught in a series of spells that force her to the ground.  Send her mind awhirl while her body thrashes.  

She may seize for several seconds or several minutes.  May twitch for hours at a time while she sobs against her parents’ chests.  She may suffer stomach pain that will not abate.  Headaches that leave her blind and fevers that burn her soul.  But she can look out the window.  She can hold her mother’s hand.  Can embrace Washington and call him ‘papa’.  She can ride with him on his horse.  Laugh as he holds her into position.  As he shows her the apple trees.  As they sit by the stream. 

Things could be worse. 

She could be in a tower, lost and alone.  She could be friendless, without a single ally.  She could be awaiting a death for a crime she felt wasn’t fair.  She could spend her days staring at an execution block, wondering if she was next. 

Irony, Washington feels, has a strange way of creeping up on him.  It comes in the form of his living arrangements.  It comes in the form of desperately wanting to build a family, and never being able to father any of them himself.  From finding his heart growing tender to laughing children with streaks of rashness...and watching those same children die as they follow his commands.  Watching them kneel on the stone square of the Tower’s execution block, washing each stone by hand.  Oblivious or ignorant that he’s kneeling where countless others have died. 

Alexander’s hair hangs in front of his face.  But Washington recognizes the arch of his back.  The tilt of his head.  Washington watched him as he walked to the square.  As he knelt down and began working.  A few others worked not far away, but they didn’t interact with Alexander, and Alexander showed no signs of interacting with them. 

Washington half wishes that he would.  That he’d talk to the people he worked with.  Finds friends and companions where he can, rather than allowing himself to remain isolated and alone.  Allies, no matter the circumstance, were a luxury Alexander couldn’t afford to squander at the moment. 

But hours pass.  And the only person who seems keen on interacting with Alexander is a stern soldier who monitors Alexander’s progress.  Who shouts loudly at Alexander’s bowed head and at one point hauls him up right only to throw him back to the ground. 

One of his boy’s hands press against his chest, and Washington’s ears ring with white noise as he envisions what’s hiding beneath Alexander’s shirt.   _ Branding.  _  Given their location, Washington supposes it’s hardly a surprise the King would be so medieval in his practices.  But Washington can’t shake it loose.  Can’t just accept that that’s how things are done here.  Because he knows it’s not.  Knows that the King’s behavior was both extreme and inappropriate. 

Alexander was his prisoner.  A prisoner of war that was subject to certain protections.  Branding him was nowhere near acceptable in terms of those protections.  Alexander never should have been touched.  Should have been kept in a cell if that’s what the King wanted.  But this...this was inappropriate.  Wrong.  A misuse of authority. 

It screams in the face of everything they fought to overcome.  Abused powers and privileges that never once made logical sense.  Washington watches as his...son.  His son for all intents and purposes, pushes himself back to his knees.  Continues scrubbing at the ground as if he’s making a difference. Tomorrow the rains will come, the mud will swell, and he’ll be back on his knees scrubbing once more.  There is no point to this. 

Alexander tucks his hair behind his ear, and there’s something dark on his face.  Squinting, Washington tries to determine what it is.  A bruise?  Cut?  Surely not a burn… they wouldn’t have burned Alexander’s face.  But the line is too perfect for that.  Wrapping toward his mouth and even continuing to the other side. 

Fabric. 

Gag.

Washington clenches his hands tightly.  His gut squeezes.  Pain begins eeking it’s way through his bowels.  He feels his tongue start pressing against sore teeth.  Sliding over his lips before tucking back in his mouth.  Alexander’s smart mouth, sharp and wicked, forced into silence.  It’s debasing.  Cruel.

And damn it all.  Washington cannot help but see the good sense and logic in it.  Alexander’s tendency to attack or eviscerate anything that stand before him, his knee jerk reaction to tell people exactly what he’s thinking, will only bring him more trouble here.  Washington cannot help but wonder what Alexander had said when they’d decided his mouth would be better served gagged.  

He cannot help but wonder what kind of trouble Alexander had found for himself.  

Yet as soon as those thoughts take form, he knows he’s done his boy an even greater dishonor than ever before.  Alexander’s smart.  He’d have been smart enough to understand how and when to become involved.  Alexander wouldn’t have made matters worse.  He would have chosen the right words for the right opportunity.  He'd held his tongue before the King.  He'd have continued holding it even now. 

In their current situation?  When they were already lying and struggling to come to terms with their present reality?  Washington  _ knows  _ his son.  Knows Alexander wouldn’t have encouraged strife or discord.  Especially after he’d been branded. 

Alexander leans back over the cobblestone ground.  He rubs his cloth against each brick.  Hair falling in front of his face.  There is nothing Washington can do. 

A key slides into the lock at the door, and Washington turns.  Frowning as King George himself walks inside.  Royal excess dripping from his body.  Clothes pristine and sparkling, jewels adorning his fingers.  Washington looks at him blandly, standing up with little joy or pleasure.  He’d much rather stay seated at the window.  Continue spying on his boy.  Soaking in assurances that Alexander was alive.  It’s better than nothing. 

The King hardly seems to care what Washington wants.  He struts about the space and inspects it all with a critical eye.  Lips drawing out into a dangerous smile, asking,  “Are we enjoying ourselves?” despite knowing exactly how Washington will answer.  It’s almost absurd that they’ve come to this.  Pretending that they’re both still on the same page.  But the King still has his boys.  All three lost somewhere in the King’s clutches, out of Washington’s ability to protect.  Except here.  Where he can say what he needs to say in order to keep things from getting worse. 

“Your grace has been quite generous with his lodging,” Washington replies.  Dutiful and patient.  He’s exhausted by the act.  Sand grits against his eyes, and his bones ache from sitting on the stone for so long.  He longs for a good night’s rest, though he knows he’s likely to never receive one after all this time.  He longs too, for a chance to see his son in person.  To confirm the boy’s well.  To pull that gag from his mouth and give him at least a small moment of respite. 

He doesn’t say any of that, though.  And instead, his comment makes the King smile.  Lips spreading wide and broad.  He sits in the only chair the room has.  Legs stretching out as he leans back against the arch of his seat.  Washington’s grateful for it.  If only because it gives him leave to sit as well.  To return to his position at the window.  Letting his eyes flicker out to check on his boy subtly.  Noting that he’s moving further and further away.  Still in view, but smaller every minute. 

King George doesn’t say anything for a long while.  Preferring to sit and watch Washington as though he’s a unique sort of specimen that he’s attempting to dissect.  An animal in John’s encyclopedia.  A foreign work of art in Steuben's eclectic collection.  It’s disconcerting.  “Your bastard’s quite the busy little worker,” George comments.  “Not a particularly good listener, mind you.  Though, with his upbringing it’s a wonder he listens at all.” 

Alexander’s getting yelled at again.  Washington cannot hear what the soldier is telling him.  But he can see how Alexander keeps his head down and to the side.  Shoulders bunched up.  Washington can only imagine the arguments that Alexander would be thinking of.  Repressing each word and keeping each thought to himself.  It makes Washington feel physically ill. 

“He listens to those he respects,” he cannot help but explain.  How many times has he seen Alexander stand toe to toe with a man that was his superior in rank, but not in moral fiber?  How many times had he watched Alexander belittle someone he thought was less than deserving of his devotion?  He and John conspired in the duel with Charles Lee, and Washington had been forced to deal with the repercussions of their actions.  Two insubordinate officers willfully dueling a superior? 

More than that, a superior officer who  _ took up  _ a duel with a pair of Lieutenant Colonels who cared more about Washington’s honor than they did about their own well-being?  His boys had been fools.  Still were.  Foolishly loyal and brave.  Devoted in every sense of the word.  And Washington had fanned that spark into a flame.  Had not only encouraged, but  _ hoped  _ they would work well with Lafayette.  Relishing his victory when they formed a kinship with their foreign Prince.  Brothers in arms that could never be conquered. 

He’d never needed better men than them. And now...now all that fearless devotion had led them here.  To a King who mocked them and grossly misused his powers.  Who smiles and says, “Respect is something that can be taught.”

There’s a soldier right now shouting at Alexander.  There’s a brand sealed into Alexander’s chest, and he’ll hold that scar for the rest of his life.  There’s a wall and a moat, towers and guns and knives.  There’s a gag that keeps Alexander from talking.  Keeps him from screaming and complaining.  What King George calls ‘respect’ sounds far too much like fear.  And Washington loathes the mere concept of his approach. 

Alexander never respected Washington because he’d been afraid of him.  If anything, Alexander took far too many liberties in their relationship as it was.  The Lieutenant Colonel took it upon himself to shout and argue and needle whenever he wanted something.  And Washington had fallen into far too many fights with the boy for a man of his station.  He has no idea why he encouraged it.  Why it built a tender space within him, and led him to doom the boy to such horror. 

It would have been better for Alexander if he’d died that day.  And damn it all. Washington’s starting to regret saving his life. 

King George looks at him passively, grin growing even wider.  He looks strange.  Misshapen and wrong, face split by a great tear.  Teeth like jagged edges, descending around the gap. “Now the other one.  Laurens.   _ He’s _ positively charming.”  That doesn’t sound like John at all.  He’s half tempted to ask if John’s been gagged too.  But he refrains.  It wouldn’t help anything. 

Washington manages to keep from looking back outside.  To instead funnell his attention solely on the King.  George is inspecting his fingernails thoughtfully.  Not bothering to meet Washington’s eyes now that he’s paying attention.  “Though so much work goes into maintaining him, I must say.” Sitting forward, the King pulls his cloak up onto his lap.  Fingers stroking the fine satin edges.  “Not nearly as entertaining as your Marquis however.  Now  _ he.   _ He I can understand why you’d keep around.  The boy’s quiet...methodical.  Alluring.” 

Washington’s fingers twitch.  He can feel a tightness start compressing around his spine.  Back muscles protesting his posture and his position more and more.  He’s far too old to be sitting curled up in a window sill like some recalcitrant child.  Far too old to be staring at King George in the Tower of London, trading discussions about how  _ alluring  _ a child of his heart is. 

“Though undeniably foolish,” the King admits.  “I granted him a wish just yesterday.  Anything he wanted.  Anything.  Do me a favor I told him, and he could have anything he wanted.  Do you know what he asked for?  When all was done?”  Washington isn’t entirely sure he  _ wants  _ to know what Lafayette asked for.  Isn’t sure he wants that thought rotating round his head ad nauseum until the next bit of news arrives.  “Lemon cake.  He wanted a slice of  _ lemon cake  _ to be delivered to John Laurens.”

Something’s wrong.   The King is laughing.  Hard enough to have tears leak from the corners of his eyes.  But he’s laughing all the same.  Chortling so much that he hasn’t realized that Washington’s frozen.  Mind spinning as he tries to piece together what could have possibly occurred. 

Lafayette doesn’t do anything without purpose or reason.  Anything in the world he could have asked for, and he chooses that.  Knowing that Alexander had been brutalized.  Knowing Alexander was alone and in pain.  But Alexander isn’t the one he wanted to provide comfort to.  John was.  

Something's gone wrong with John.  Something bad enough Lafayette went to him first.  

Washington's fingers feel stiff.  “And Laurens didn’t even like it,” King George laments.  “It’s quite rude not to accept a gift once it’s been given, don’t you agree?” 

There’s no good way to answer the question.  Washington’s teeth ache far too much for him to grind them together, and his fingers are already straining to stay still.  His mind is tumbling over possibilities, but he manages to maintain his good demeanor.  Be polite.  Try as hard as he can not to imagine John and that slice of cake.  Not to imagine Lafayette’s reaction once he undoubtedly discovers how poorly his gift had been received. 

“He’s your hostage,” Washington reminds slowly.  John’s being paid for by his father.  His well-being is meant to be  _ certain.  _  That’s the point of John’s ransom. 

“Hostage is truly just another word for  _ prisoner,”  _ the King misidentifies with a single shrugged shoulder.  “Do you know who was also a prisoner?  Robert Devereux.” Standing tall, King George casts his arm out from his body. Waves it in a wide arc to signify the expanse of the room. “The very man whose room you now occupy.” 

Washington never bothered to memorize every prisoner of the Tower of London.  Finding the legends more interesting than the history.  Caring more for the Tower’s ghost stories than anything else.  Still, Washington feels the slightest trickle of unease as the King fixes him with a steely stare. 

“Devereux was Queen Elizabeth I’s favoured son of England.  He served her with great success.  Provided her with the monies she required and the loyalty she demanded as her station.”  Wincing, Washington glances back outside.  Alexander’s gone from sight.  The other servants are still scrubbing, but farther down.  Almost curling around the corner.  “Robert Devereux was given simple orders.  Simple commands. 

‘“Go to Ireland, crush the rebels, and secure my lands.”’ King George scoffed.  “Instead, he went to Ireland and made a pact with the Irish, and when he came back—he was justly punished for his insubordination.  To which he replied with a force of men prepared to kidnap the Queen and place another on her throne instead.” 

The analogy isn’t lost on Washington, and he finds it harder and harder to keep silent.  To not spew his immediate response.   _ Were his terms with the Irish amenable to furthering the Queen’s plans?  Did it make the Kingdom stronger?  Was he given opportunity to earn back his honor and reputation?  _

“Do you know what happened to Robert Devereux?”  No, but Washington can guess.  “He was executed.  Right there, where your bastard’s busy scrubbing the floor.  Took them three swings of an axe.  Kept missing his neck.  He died in bloody agony.  And his monarch just watched.” 

“What is it that you want, your grace?” 

“I want my servants to serve me.  That’s all,” King George stated. 

“And we wanted a King who would care for his people,” Washington replies sharply, unable to contain the rebuke.  “Not a King who brutalizes his subjects and forces them into degradation.” 

For a moment, neither speaks.  King George frowns at him for a long while, and then carefully turns on his heel and walks toward the door.  “Do keep in mind,  _ Washington,  _ that your son’s life is dependant on your ability to keep me satisfied.”  He opens the door and spares Washington half a glance.  “I’d hate for something to happen to him because you weren’t thinking clearly.”  He departs before waiting for Washington to reply.

Washington turns his head.  Alexander’s back in view.  But just barely.  He’s returned with a fresh bucket of water, and he’s continued his scrubbing.  That is, until someone calls for him.  He looks up at the voice, and then listens to whatever it says.  Slowly, Alexander raises his eyes and meet’s Washington’s gaze.  

He’s too far away for Washington to make sense of his expression or glean insight to his mind.  But their exchange ends far too quickly.  The soldier is reaching for Alexander and dragging him to his feet.  He’s thrown roughly toward the chapel out of sight, out of mind. 

_ Behave,  _ Washington pleads.  Though he’s not sure who he’s chastising.  It doesn’t matter.  He prays for all of them.   _ Just behave. _


	7. Alex

Alex’s feet trip over themselves as he’s shoved deeper into St. John’s Chapel.  Sergeant Smith, his dedicated overseer, doesn’t stop to let him catch his balance.  He’s dragged for a few strides as his useless legs try to get find traction, and when they do, he’s still not quick enough.  His muscles burn.  Too long kneeling on cobblestone, too long crouched or bent over.  They ache with every step he takes, and he suspects they’ll ache for a while yet.

Smith lets him fall, finally, at the foot of the alter.  His body crumpling back into position almost the moment he’s permitted to just drop.  His knees crack against the stone, but that’s fine.  He can lean over and press one hand to his chest and brace himself on the other.  He can keep his head tucked and protect all the sensitive parts of himself from whatever Smith had planned.  
Ignore the burning at the corners of his mouth.  The way his skin feels dry.  Torn and ragged.

But pain isn’t something Smith considers.  Instead, he says something that Alex misses, and a few rapid footsteps snap across the hall.  Someone kneels at his side, and Alex’s breath catches as a hand catches him by the arm.  Another on his cheek angling his head up.  

Lafayette.

 _Dear God, it’s Lafayette—_ Alex pitches forward, and Lafayette lets him.  He adjusts his posture to accommodate, and then pulls Alex the rest of the way.  Alex’s head presses against the younger man’s chest, and his arms snake their way around his waist.  He’s clinging to him disgracefully, but Lafayette doesn’t seem to care at all.

If anything, he’s holding Alex impossibly close.  As if he could press Alex into his chest and smuggle him out in his rib cage. The hand on his face holds him tight against his heart, and Alex can hear the rapid patter of its procession.  Can feel how Lafayette’s chest rises and falls far too quickly for him to be calm.  

His fingers dig into the cloth tied tight around Alex’s mouth.  “He’s not permitted to talk...Marquis,” Smith reminds.  As if Alex didn’t know that.  As if he wasn’t fully aware of that fact.  Of the anxiety that keeps building up within him as he recalls the painful hand on his hair.  The shouted words that told him again and again to keep his mouth shut.  Stop crying.  Stop making noise.  It doesn’t hurt that bad.

Alex’s hand presses against his chest.  His skin hurts.  The muscle aches.  He’s shaking even as Lafayette pulls the cloth band from around his mouth.  Let’s it fall so it hangs like a noose about his throat. Lafayette’s trembling.  Smells faintly of sweat and wine.  His skin is clammy too.  But he’s staring at Alex with too wet eyes.  He swears to Smith that Alex won’t speak, and Alex longs for Smith to believe him.  Longs for the chance that he knows he won’t have forever.

Small mercies come in silence, and Smith stays blissfully quiet.  Watching them both, but not interfering as Lafayette presses his head against Alex’s.  As Lafayette’s lips trace the edge of Alex’s auricle while he whispers,  “I don’t have long.”  The words almost overshadowed by his breath.  Air spirals into his ear and Alex flinches away.  Lafayette holds him tighter, not letting him break free.  He gets a kiss on the side of his head as an apology, and the next time Lafayette speaks—he is more careful of his position.

But the kiss lingers.  Burns like the scar on his chest.  Alex cannot remember a time when they’d been parted and rejoined where Lafayette hasn’t kissed his cheeks.  Where Lafayette hasn’t embraced him and pulled him close.  First the left then the right.  He hadn’t had time with how Alex had burrowed into him, but now the lack of tradition stings sharply.  

He needs to fight to sit up.  Lafayette unwilling to release him even for a moment.  But the thought won’t leave Alex’s head.  It gallops headlong in harsh and uncompromising circles.  Twists his brain into a frenzied mess.  His skin is quailing from the onslaught of too sensitive nerves desperate for relief.  

With enough leverage he manages to get the distance he needs, and then he kisses Lafayette’s cheeks.  Feels his friend go stiff with surprise, before returning the gesture fully on the second pass.  Energy spent, Alex lets himself collapse once more, and Lafayette adjusts to hold him securely.  One hand lost in his hair.  Soothing touch settling hysterical nerves.  

“How are you?” Lafayette asks Alex softly.  

 _Sore.  Tired.  Lonely.  Scared._ He doesn’t know how to quantify that.  Can’t manage to get his throat to work around the words he’s not allowed to say.  Smith is watching them too closely.  Is waiting for Alex to break.  To say something he’s not supposed to say.  And he can’t. Not if it’ll mean he loses this.  Whatever this is.

Lafayette’s dressed in fancy clothes.  His hair is neatly combed and he’s been so well taken care of.  Alex wishes he had more strength to show how happy he is to see it.  To show that he wants nothing more than for Lafayette to continue having good things happen to him.  To remain unharmed.

The frenchman runs his fingers through Alex’s hair.  Down his back.  He keeps the motions active.  Over and over again.  Repeating the process as much as he can in hopes of soothing Alex’s soul.  Alex’s eternally grateful for that.  He really is.  He keeps his eyes closed and his mouth shut and he just lets Lafayette babble against his head.

He’s seen Angelica.  She’s here in court and she’s quite well.  She’s unharmed.  She’s dancing and pretty and would not be offended if he passed along her love, though Lafayette’s not spoken to her to confirm.  Alex sighs and curls in close.

Lafayette speaks on.  Meaningless words that likely formed some kind of narrative, but Alex cannot process any of them.  He doesn’t listen for it.  Doesn’t try to apply any kind of logic.  He just lays against Lafayette and finds himself dozing.   _Dozing._  He’s so comfortable here.  Sprawled in his friend’s lap, warm arms tight about his frame, he’s losing his grip on reality.

He feels stones beneath his heels.  Knows from the echo that they’re still in the chapel. Great arching pillars line the hall, and they catch the sound.  Reflect it in all directions.  Reaching up to the ceiling before settling back onto the earth below.

His mother used to take him to church as a child.  He’d sit in the chapels of Nevis.  Nowhere near as grand as this one, and they’d stare up at the preacher.  Latin echoed off all the walls, and even though Alex couldn’t understand it at first, he’d wanted to listen to the man forever.  Listen as his words stretched on until the end of time.

Sitting here now, Lafayette’s lilting English is turning into slurring French, Alex cannot help but want the same.  To listen to meaningless sounds.  Let it fill his soul like gentle music.  Feel the sun against his face as his body slowly relaxes.  Wait for it, wait for it, wait…

Something creaks.  Something whines.  Sharp footsteps against cold stone.  Lafayette keeps going, murmuring words Alex doesn’t have it in him to translate.  He’s too tired.  Too sore.  He’s falling asleep where he sits and Lafayette presses onward without so much as asking if he’s able to listen.

“Marquis,” King George snaps.  Alex flinches.  Lafayette squeezes him tighter.  Words sounding slightly more urgent.  Alex cannot make out a single meaning to any of it.  But it doesn’t matter.  Lafayette leans back, kisses Alex’s cheeks again.  This time in parting.  

“I’ll make sure you’re unharmed,” Lafayette tells him.  He cannot make that promise.  Alex _knows_ he cannot make that promise.  Lafayette doesn’t have the authority or the power to do anything of the sort.  He’s a prisoner same as Alex.  And even if he weren’t, he had nothing that the King could possibly want.  Not in exchange for leverage over Washington.  Leverage Alex still cannot believe is working.  

But Lafayette swears it again and again. “ _Now,_ Marquis,” King George barks out.  The frenchman drags Alex back to his feet.  Trembling and shaky the whole while.  He holds onto Alex’s body, and Alex stares at his face.  It’s flushed dark.  When he breathes, Alex can smell his breath.

He’s _drunk._  He’s drunk, and he wavering where he stands. But he kisses Alex’s cheeks once more, firmly.  Even presses a final kiss to his brow before stumbling backwards. Gait unsteady and awkward.  He looks _dizzy_ as he stumbles toward the King.  As if the world was twisting under his feet and he couldn’t seem to figure out where to place them.  Lafayette’s hip clips a pew, and he nearly falls.  His balance is so uncertain.  But he keeps himself upright.  Comes to a stop just before the King. Eyes cast down.

“What do we say, Marquis?”  The King asks coolly.

“Thank you for your benevolence,” Lafayette replies, words sounding so wearily resigned.  Leaving his mouth in an awkward mash of syllables that nearly collapse on top of each other.  Shoulders slumping and figure poor.

The King grins.  Pats Lafayette’s cheek and leads him from the chapel.  Alex can’t even say anything to help.  To try to make it better.  To ask what in the name of God is going on.  He watches as they walk away, and Alex wishes he’d been able to pay attention to what Lafayette had been trying to tell him.

But the words hadn’t made much sense.  Lafayette rarely made sense when he was intoxicated.  His languages mixed up and his enunciation floundered.  A part of Alex wondered if that’d been the point in the first place.  If he’d been drunk on purpose.  If he’d thought it through.

“Come with me,” Smith ordered, and Alex immediately turned.  His leg muscles didn’t ache as much anymore.  The break at least helped.  Even if he’d been curled up the whole time, the mere presence of his friend _had_ helped.  His skin still tingled from where he felt Lafayette’s arms around him.

 _God I want him back,_ Alex thought miserably.  Smith starts walking out of the chapel though, and Alex knows better than to lag behind.  Knows better than to remind him the gag is still unfastened and hanging loose around his throat.  Knows better than to complain.  Don’t say anything, don’t argue.  Just keep your head down.

They leave the chapel and start walking across the grounds.  Smith’s strides are far longer than Alex’s.  It takes two full steps to keep pace with each one of Smith’s.  Alex half feels like he’s running.  Lungs squeezing hard to pull in air and let it out.

They walk the course of the Tower wall.  Almost to the opposite side of the whole of it.  There’s a small building attached to one section of the wall, and Smith directs him inside immediately.  The smell catches Alex almost entirely off guard.  It’s _putrid_.  Feces and flies.  He chokes on it.  Lifts a hand to his mouth.  Tries to squint through the gloom to even make out what he was seeing.  

Cages of some sort line the sides of the room.  Hay bunches up in various corners.  An old man in a smart uniform is bent over.  Wheezing in the heat as he tries to tidy up.  Three ravens watching from a tall perch in the back of the room.  Looking at them with tilted heads.  Cawing in annoyance as Smith steps beside Alex.  “That’s Ravenmaster Edwards.  You’re under his command,”  Smith says shortly.  He squeezes Alex’s shoulder, hard enough to aggravate bruises he hadn’t even realized he’d had.

He’s shoved forward.  Stumbling toward Edwards who slowly gets to his feet.  “Think you can handle him, Edwards?”  Smith asks loudly.  Alex flinches.  Tries to keep his head down.  Not seem obtrusive or wrong.  He can feel his fingers start trembling at his sides.  Tension pulsing through him.  He wants to move.  Do something.  Distract himself.  His tongue and lips are desperate to speak.  He can feel words building in the back of his throat.  But he can’t say anything.  Can’t let it out.

“I think I can manage one _boy,_ sergeant,” Edwards replies.  Aged voice sounding like an un-oiled hinge.  Smith makes a disgusted noise before stepping close.  Holding Alex’s neck in a vice grip.

“Do remember, boy, _no one wants to hear you speak.”_

He remembers.  He doesn’t need Smith to tell him that.  He doesn’t even reply.  Smith turns and leaves the hutch, slamming the door behind him.  The ravens caw loudly in protest.  Noises burning into Alex’s ears.  He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to ward off the headache that sparks immediately.

Too much too quick.  His head is killing him.  His body feels empty and unusual.  He feels like he’s floating.  Fumbling.  Edwards steps forward and presses something into his palm.  “I want this room cleaned top to bottom.  These birds deserve far better than _this.”_  The Ravenmaster keeps his voice cool and level, and Alex forces himself to nod.  To redirect his attention to the worst of it all, and try to calm his nerves.  He feels like he’s being pulled apart.  And he’s got no idea how to manage any of it.

But even so, he gets down on his knees, and he starts to scrub.

***

There are seven ravens.

Six must be in the Tower at all times, but there are seven in case something should occur.  Alex carries bucket after bucket of water into the hutch.  He pours the water out.  He gets to his knees and he pushes it around.  White streaks of poop slide  far too frequently around the room, and he addresses the walls and vertical surfaces first.  

Tries removing the sludge.   

The air is thick and pervasive.  He relishes the moments where he can excuse himself from the building.  Can make the walk to the pump to collect more water.  Sweat started sliding down Alex’s face in the first hour of his time in the hutch.  It became so much worse as time went on.  

Edwards abandoned it to fan himself outside.  Staring up at the clouds and lamenting their lack of rain.  Apparently it’s a warm summer for them.  Alex has no frame of reference.  Nor does he particularly care.  

He washes the walls until his fingers are wilted and his nails stained black.  He sweeps out the excess and inappropriate amounts of hay, and then starts addressing the cages themselves.  All the while the ravens multiply.  Until they sit on their perch, seven side by side.  Talking amongst themselves with deep throated caws and interested cackles.

Alex tries to recall anything he can think of about the birds.  John used to carry an encyclopedia with him during the war.  Plotting out all the animals and their habitats and ranges.  Ravens were in there at some point.  Like crows but not.  John would know better.  He wishes he could ask his friend.

Seeing Lafayette has only pushed him into wanting to see the others.  To get more than a brief glance at Washington in the Tower.  To get more than just a whispered promise that Lafayette won’t let anything bad happen to them.   _Just you wait…_

He’d listened as the servant girls talked about John.  About how they hated climbing the stairs to his room to provide him with food.  How happy they were that at least he didn’t smell anymore.  Alex hadn’t been able to get much more than that.  Hadn’t been able to furrow out the details or determine what their comments meant.

Smith had seen him lurking, loitering, and he’d been ordered back to the yard.  Scrub the floor.  Carry the wood.  Keep working until he stumbled from exhaustion and couldn’t take one more step.

He’s getting close now.

He’d worked all through the night the day before, and he couldn’t remember what the last thing he ate was.  Let alone _when_ he’d last eaten it.  Bread most likely.  Stale and hard.  His teeth were sore, but his mouth filled with saliva the more he contemplated eating.  Stomach gurgling loudly as he worked.

“I’ve served these birds for thirty years!” Ravenmaster Edwards announces as Alex fetches another bucket.  “Bit hard to do it these days, of course,” he sighs.  “But it’s a noble task.  Any man’d be proud to have it.”

They’re just birds.

Alex nods his head to be polite, but ignores the comment in its entirety.  Why anyone thought to keep a collection of ravens was beyond him.  They were intelligent creatures, sure, but going out of your way for them seemed odd.  “You’ll be coming down here every day,” Edwards continues.  Raising his voice so Alex could hear.  One of the ravens hopped down from its perch and fluttered toward where Alex knelt.  Watching him curiously.

He ignores it and keeps scrubbing.  “That room must be kept in optimal condition at all times.  And!” Edwards raises his voice even higher.  “If anything should happen to those birds and it be your fault, it won’t matter who you’re related to—you’ll be measured for rope.  Are we clear?!”

Alex’s mouth opens, but he snaps it shut just as quick.  He remembers his thrashing against the table.  Remembers screaming for John.  Lafayette.  God, he’d even screamed for Washington.  Screamed for the man who was meant to be his father.  Done it like a sniveling child.  How _pathetic._ He remembers being told to shut up or he’d be made to shut up.

His chest aches.

Edwards peers into the hutch and scowls at Alex until he makes a show of nodding.  Yes.  He heard.  Don’t harm the ravens.  They’re worth more than he is.  Understood.  

“There are seven ravens,” Edwards repeats.  “There’s Anne and Alfred, Olaf and Catherine, Duncan and Gilbert, and Knox.” _Gilbert._  Alex scans through the Ravens and wonders which one’s which.  Edwards says the name the English way.  Hard ‘g’, firm ‘t.’  Lafayette’s name sounds nicer.   _Zhil-bear_ .  Soft and gentle from start to finish.  Lafayette always scoffed at  
the English pronunciation.  

The ravens come and go as they please through a window that’s kept wide open.  There are other windows about that help with ventilation and air, but they’re closed.  Jammed shut from the winter, apparently.  Alex runs his hands along the hinges and tries to figure out the best way to fix each one.  The hinges need to be scrubbed and oiled.  He digs his nails into the scum he  
sees and tries to pull it free.

One of the birds enjoys fluttering toward him and moving his cloth from him.  Each time he sets it down to try to pry at the the latch, it’s fluttered several feet away and dropped.  Edwards laughs while it happens.  Startling Alex into turning to find out why each time.  “They’ll do that,” Edwards informs him.  “Best just accept it.”

 _They can have the cloth,_ Alex sighs, leaving it be so he can chip away at the crud and the grime.  The first window opens after nearly an hour of hitting and scratching.  Fresh air whooshes into the room and heat filters out into the coolness of the world outside.  The ravens caw happily and take turns swooping in and out of the window. Hopping about to inspect his work and biting at his fingers if he tries to continue cleaning around them.

Spoiled creatures.

But it’s fine.

Even as the sun dips down and night rises, Alex _knows_ it’s fine.  His body is sore.  Aching and weary.  His head is listing, but the ravens are hopping about from perch to perch, and his work is steady.  Mostly uninterrupted.  

He hasn’t added any new pains to his collection.  Just exhaustion.  A desperate need for sleep.  A hopeless dream for food. The room’s not nearly clean enough.  He’s only managed to get through maybe a quarter of it.  But he can see from Edwards’ face that it’s satisfactory.

After weeks of silence and an endless refrain that Alex will _never_ be good enough, he feels good.  His arms are aching, his back is sore, neck stiff.  But Edward  compliments him.  Tells him the hutch looks better than it had in a long while.  Orders him to get some rest.

Food’ll be coming soon.  

“Get going and eat it,” Edwards commands.  “You’ll need it for tomorrow.”

Alex stares at him.  Watches as he leaves the hutch and disappears across the square.  The ravens caw at Alex’s back.  And damn it all, almost two months into this endeavor, Alex _smiles._

Contentment and satisfaction burning through him.  Immediately warring with the horror of just what he’s been doing all day.  Where his friends and family are.  He feels his head fogging uncomfortably.  Emotions spinning about dizzily.  Everything clashes and combines.  He cannot explain the feeling lurking deep and sickening within his chest.

Cannot give name to the hysteria that’s spiraling with him.  Feelings, good and bad, clamboring for purchase within his skull.  His head is aching worse than anything he’s ever felt.  Dark spots are peppering his vision, but he muscles through it.  Gathers his cleaning materials.  Walks to the storeroom to drop everything off.  He drags himself to the servant quarters where he  
is given a bowl and told to eat.

Alex stares down at it, and feels so confused.

He just wants to go home.


	8. Lafayette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings at end of chapter

There are precious few moments that Lafayette has to himself.  The King demands his attention most evenings, and the conversations leave him feeling empty and raw.  Too angry to go to sleep, but too tired to actually do anything else.  He finds that between the hours of midnight and dawn, he struggles to keep his head above water.  Struggles to keep himself from collapsing under the weight of the world.

George isn’t worried about him.  That much, Lafayette is more than aware of.  The King laughs and trills, teases and enjoys making a mockery of Lafayette whenever he has the opportunity to do so, but he isn’t _afraid_ of him.  Isn’t worried about what he’ll do or who he’ll talk to.

For good reason.  

Most of the Lords and Ladies Lafayette encounter always sniff and turn the other way.  He saw Angelica Schuyler a few times, but she’s wisely kept her distance.  Offering only longing glances across the hall.  Apology clear in her eyes, even as she keeps her head down.  He’s heard the rumors.  What’s talked about at court.  

The Schuyler family were slaughtered in their beds.  House burned to the ground.  He’d danced in that house.  Laughed with Philip Schuyler and his children.  Relished in getting to know dear Eliza, who’d marry Alexander.  Rejoice in entertaining sweet Angelica as she observed the room.

She reminded him of his wife.  Sharp and witty and always thinking four steps ahead.  Adrienne and Angelica would have gotten along very well with each other.  And yet now...gone is that perfect fire.  Now only there exists a quiet girl.  One who had needed to prostrate herself before the King to save her life, even as he mocked the deaths of the family she’d held so dear.  She’d needed to tell him she married a British Officer because she believed in his cause.  She was a loyal servant of the crown.  She always would be.

And it remained imperative that she acted as such.  Lafayette couldn’t speak to her.  Nor she to him.

They were prisoners both.  Isolated and separated from the ones they loved.  Forced to put on airs and graces.  Smile and play pretend.  Seek no comfort from or for each other.  Angelica smiles at him.  Lets her hand trace his when they pass in the halls.  But they don’t speak.  And she’s the only one who seems to care.

The others squirm when they look at him. As though he’s particularly odious or hideous to the eye.  It’s disappointing, if nothing else.  Loneliness, of all things, growing rampant in his heart.  It grows like weeds, choking out all else.  Shame following lightly on its heels.

His brothers at arms are God-knows-where, and Lafayette is _lonely._ “Stupid fool,” he mutters as he wanders the Palace.  He almost wishes for a cage.  If only so he could blame his isolation on the four walls that shield him from the world.  Better their physical presence than the invisible lines that hold him in solitary confinement now.

Leaning against the ramparts, Lafayette stares at London.  It’s architecture and its cobblestone.  Dark and dreary and permanently coated in fog and rain.  A door opens not far away, and he peers over his shoulder.  A young woman.  A maid, if her attire is to be trusted.  She’s got dark brown hair and grey eyes.  Pretty in a way most young women are.  Filled with life and passion.  

 _God above, I miss my wife,_ Lafayette sighs.

“Pardon me, my Lord,” the maid says to him.  She even offers a curtsey.  

“You needn’t do that,” he tells her.  “I’m a prisoner apparently, so...honors and all…” he waves his hand vaguely in the air, and she smiles politely.

“What are you doing out here, sir?” she asks.  She’s got a bundle in her arms.  A basket, rather.  Flowers fill it.  Roses without thorns. Belladona. Foxglove. Oleander. Dandelions.  There’s a collection of different colors, and Lafayette’s not nearly familiar enough to name them all on sight.  

“Contemplating if the fall will kill me,” he replies.  He’s being sarcastic.  He’s no intentions of throwing himself from the ramparts.  It wouldn’t serve any purpose, and he’s not nearly depressed enough for such things.  Not now in any case.  

The girl doesn’t even seem alarmed.  Just leans to look over the side.  “I’m sure it will,” she tells him sincerely.  They are quite a ways up.  “Is that truly what you want to do, sir?”

He shakes his head and turns.  Leaning against the stone and letting his eyes travel up toward the sky.  He didn’t know what he wanted to do.  Only that what he was doing now wasn’t helping matters at all.  He hated feeling useless.  Hated feeling as though everything he did amounted to nothing, because someone else would be there.  Someone else would be pulling the puppet strings that he had wrapped around his wrists.  Changing his story without his permission.

“What do you do with the flowers?” Lafayette asks her.  

“I give them to those who need them.”  She smiles at him, and walks closer.  Reaching into her basket to hand him a dandelion, explaining the meaning as she goes.  He peers down at the weed.  All it’s furry little yellow petals.  “And sometimes,” she continues, adjusting her hand so she can lean toward him.  Lafayette’s back presses more firmly against the stone, staring down at her in confusion. But her hand slides to his pocket, and he feels something slip inside.  “I pass messages.” She kisses his cheeks. First left, then right.  “Have a good night my lord,” she says.  “There’s a fire just there,” she points down the hall.  “Should you get cold.”

The girl’s gone before he can even think to ask her name.  Leaving him with a sad looking dandelion, and a note signed from his wife.

He almost wants to laugh.

But he’s too busy crying to remember how.

***

Days slip by faster and faster.  Lafayette sees the girl occasionally attending to her duties, but he calls no attention to her and she doesn’t look back at him.  They don’t meet again.  It doesn’t stop Lafayette from walking the ramparts in hopes of another missive.  He doesn’t dare think to write a response.

The flower girl is still on his mind when he drags himself to stand before the King one evening.  Presence requested and service required for the whole night, regardless of his opinions or desires.

Lafayette’s familiar with serving at the pleasure of the court.  He’s acted as a Musketeer for years.  Engaged in parades and bent a knee to his King whenever Louis commanded it.  He dressed pretty and trained hard.  Both bodyguard and symbol.  Something for the King and Queen to find amusing as well as useful.  

He can still remember being fourteen.  Shining his boots and polishing his sword. Pressing his blue uniform and fluffing out the feather in his hat.  His sash had a tendency to slip off his shoulder, and he used to have to cinch his belt far tighter than necessary to keep it in place.  He’d have trouble breathing by mid day, but he’d keep on marching.  Back straight and head held high.

Lafayette hated being at court.  Hated meeting the different Lords and Ladies.  The gossip was insidious, the tests and social etiquettes were boring.  But their _children_ were far more fun.   Adrienne had been far more fun.  He’d been a boy playing soldier, and she’d been his thoughtful lady.  Twelve years old, but dressed in fine silks.  Fan in hand as she watched him parade.  Cheering and applauding each step he took.

When his drills were over, he’d take her by the hand and they’d race through the grounds together.  Hiding from their betters in the shrubbery.  Sharing secrets side by side.  They’d laugh as they walked the halls.  They’d danced during parties.  Winked at each other over dinner, when she sat on one end of the table and he on the other.  

Serving at the court became synonymous with seeing Adrienne.  And while he hated the posturing and pretending, he contented himself with seeing her pretty smile.  Seeing her in her fine dresses as she attended to her parents and their errands.  He commissioned her hats.  She presented him with tokens of her affection.  He kept the first handkerchief she’d ever given him for all his life.

Tucked in by his breast.  Right above his heart.  He pressed his hand against it each day before he plunged into battle.  He closed his eyes and dreamed of his Adrienne.  His fearless lady in her bright dress.  Her sharp wit and her flawless mind.  Thoughts of playing chess with her well into the evening.  Crackling fire at their side.

For much of his life he had longed for a companion that matched him in every way.  Adrienne filled voids in his soul he hadn’t known he’d had.  Had been his friend and confidante even when he’d been heartless and cruel.  Had held out her hand, and taken him as hers, even when there were countless others.  

“It’s a nice story,” King George muses as Lafayette stands before him.  Night had fallen hours ago.  There’s a fire burning bright not far away.  Heating the King’s chambers.  Filling it with a warm glow.  “Of course, the marriage was completely arranged,” he continues.  Like a fly seeking rot.

Lafayette nods slowly.  Murmuring the words, “We were fortunate to have loved each other, your grace,” quietly.  He doesn’t want to share Adrienne with this man.  Doesn’t want to pervert the memory of his wife by sharing such memories with this King.  He may laugh and mock Lafayette all he wanted, but Adrienne and his family...they were his.

His beautiful son and daughter.  His flawless wife.  King George had no claim to them.  He never would.  Serving King Louis offered him more than enough good favor with the man.  Louis would never allow George to touch him.  To touch his family.  They were safe from harm.

“Love,” George huffs.

“I’m certain love is what’s on your mind when you fuck her like any other whore.” Anger flares sharp in Lafayette’s chest.  His fingers clench into fists immediately.  His breath stutters as his spine goes rigid.  He’s breathing hard, and George sees it.  Smiles angelically as he stands from his seat and walks in a circle around Lafayette.  Tsking under his breath.  

 _Let it go,_ Lafayette tells himself.   _Just let it go._ Adrienne and the children are in France. They’re safe.  They’ll live out their days without him, but they’ll be safe.  George can mock and tease.  He can insult and abuse, but his words are just words.  His abuse is just an idea.  He cannot touch them.   _Let it go._

“You were...sixteen?  When you married sweet Adrienne?”  George asks.  He already knows the answer, but he waits for Lafayette to nod his head.  Waits for him to agree.  “And you wife was...fourteen?  So young.  Did she bleed? When you fucked her?”

Lafayette’s fairly certain he’s trembling.  Fury is pounding through his veins, and he’s struggling to not let it out.  He’d told Alex and John that they needed to stay quiet, and by _God,_ he’ll stay quiet too if it’s the last thing he does.  “It’s not seemly to say, your grace,” he manages to say.  

George’s hand slams hard on the writing desk just in front of Lafayette’s body.  A quill pops from the inkwell and rolls along the mahogany wood.  Ink splattering beneath it.  “I could have a man in John Lauren’s Tower _tonight._ I could have the bastard flogged.  Your dear General removed from his ever so comfortable rooms and put down where not even the sun can find his face.  If this conversation is _uncomfortable_ for you, merely say the word and I will say mine.”

 _Let it go,_ Lafayette reminds himself.   _Let it go._ Adrienne’s sweet face beckons him forward.  Her smile and her loving embrace.  Her hand reaching toward him.  Holding him afterward.  They’d been awful.  Fumbling and awkward as they tried to find their way around each other’s bodies.  

Their first night together had ended with neither of them consummating the marriage and spending far more time giggling and trying to get over how uncomfortable it all was.  They’d spend their days playing lord and lady.  They spent their nights by the fire, blankets all around them.  Touching skin and trying to feel emboldened.

He’d whispered stories he’d heard.  She’d blush and tell him that she’d spoken to one of the older women and did he know…? Did he ever want to…?

They kissed more than they touched anywhere else.  Familiar and lovely.  Curious and uncertain.  He’d run his hands along her legs and he’d felt the parts of her that were so different from the parts of him.  She did the same.  For hours and hours they’d touched and pressed.  They kissed and blushed and laughed.  

Their first time hadn’t been perfect.  It’d been a mess of touch and go and _are you okay?_ Of hesitating because he hated seeing her look unhappy.  Of Adrienne biting her lip and pulling him closer.  Clumsy and awkward, but in the end— _theirs._

He remembers each blush.  Each kiss.  Each bat of her eyes.  Remembers how it felt to be inside her, surrounded by her.  How he never wanted to leave her again.  How they still kissed and laughed, and how it felt so much better once both of them understood more than just the general mechanics of it all.

“She didn’t bleed,” Lafayette told King George.  He can’t quite keep the anger from his tone.  Can’t quite keep himself from feeling like his heart’s going to burst from his chest.  Sick tension is coiling through him.  

Adrienne was high-born.  She’d ridden horses.  She’d been carefully watched and monitored every day of her life.  She didn’t bleed because she’d broken her maiden-head elsewhere.  It had nothing to do with what George was insinuating.  Adrienne was _his_ wife.  She was not to be talked about so crudely.

George would never say such things in front of Louis.  This was merely for Lafayette’s benefit.  “You have...two children?” Now.  Yes.  Though telling George of Henriette’s death is not in the realm of possibilities for him.  Not while it rested in his power to withhold such things.

He nods his head.  Tries not to think of little Henriette.  Twenty-two months old.   The smallest box he’d ever seen.  How Adrienne had sobbed against his body.  How he’d needed to hold her back, even though all he wanted to do was reclaim their child from the cold dark they condemned her corpse to rot in.  Breathe life into her like he’d done on the day of her conception.  

“What are their names?” George presses.  Keeping his focus.  Twisting.  Tearing it all down.  

“Anastasie…” he starts, pausing before he grudgingly names his son.  “ _Et_ Georges.”

It’s like a bear to honey.  George grins and pats Lafayette’s cheek.  “George?” he asks, purposefully mispronouncing his son’s name the English way.  It’s wrong.  It’s not how the name should sound, and even Washington managed the correct pronunciation.  Washington didn’t even speak French, but he’d made the effort to memorize the light tone of Georges that _George_ never had.  “Named after someone you know?” the King leers.

“The best man I know,” Lafayette says right back.  It’s not, perhaps, the most subtle of statements, but George doesn’t immediately chastise him.  He lets the words linger for a time.  Lets them ruminate in the space between them like a child growing in the womb.  There’s no knowing what will come of it, only that it exists, and every second that passes makes it grow.

George pours himself a glass of wine.  He likes his wine.  Likes to drink it each night, and likes it when Lafayette drinks it with him.  He phrases the commands like requests.  Honeying the words with simple meaningless trifles in George’s esteemed opinion, but valuable offerings in Lafayette’s.

_Drink with me and I’ll let you see the bastard._

_Drink with me and I’ll allow Washington a pillow._

_Drink with me and I’ll give Laurens a third meal tomorrow._

Sure enough, he waves his hand toward the bottle.  Lafayette picks it up gingerly.  He can hardly remember his conversation with Alex.  Can hardly recall what he’d said or how Alex had replied.  It’d been a cheap trick.  But one that, ultimately, had worked.  He does know Alex is safe.  Safe and in good health all things considered.  He’s hurting, yes.  He’ll be hurting for a while.  But he’s alive.  He’s almost well.

One thing does peak out along his consciousness though.  Wriggling in the back of his mind until he gives it voice.  “You told Alex not to talk.”

The King scoffs.  Rolls his eyes and takes a long sip of his drink.  “I’ve heard of him before you know.   _Alexander Hamilton._  Bastard boy with a bastard’s name.  I’ve heard his arguments and his explanations.  His contemplations.  My officers’ do give reports from time to time.  And your bastard...truly has been a _bastard_ in the war.”

Apparently Alex’s reputation crossed the ocean.  Were they not _also_ across the ocean _with_ that reputation, Lafayette would take it upon himself to congratulate his friend.  As it is.  He knows full well that it’s done nothing to add to Alex’s experience in any positive way.

“Even my men have made it abundantly clear that he’s incapable of keeping his thoughts and opinions to himself.  That he does have a brilliant mind for strategy, Washington’s gene’s I’m sure, but that he gives his advice unsolicited.”  George sips from his wine again.  Squints toward Lafayette and waits.  His opinion on Lafayette’s sobriety abundantly clear.  Sighing, Lafayette pours himself a glass.  Begins to drink.  “Silence and service are all I require from him.  Strangely, it’s all I want from the colonies too.”

There are hundreds of arguments to make to that.  Each line that George had said carried a wealth of inaccuracies and inclinations that weren’t even slightly true.  Lafayette sips his wine.  Keeps his opinions to himself, and tries to remember to ask for Alex to get a reprieve at some point in the future.  When the King’s less interested in keeping up symbolic threats and more interested in how this will all play out.

One year, ten?  Twenty?  At some point the king is going to get tired of them all, and he’ll make a decision.  At some point, the money will stop and Lafayette doesn’t doubt that he’ll see his comrades die one by one.  Starting with Alex, then John, and then Washington at the end of it all.

Someone back in the colonies might mourn the loss of Washington, though Lafayette doubts they’ll think much on Alex or John.  Just two boys caught up in a war.  The footnote at the end of a history book.  The forgotten about aides that would have been far more profitable if they’d been killed along with the rest of the aides.

And there Lafayette will be.  A frenchman in an English court.  Not an advisor, not truly a prisoner.  Just a guest, kept here by his word.  “Do you ever wonder what would have happened if we’d won?”  Lafayette asks.  He stares at his wine.  It’s darker than blood.  Darker than a bruise.  It sits in his glass.  A thick purple color that’s entirely indescribable.

“No,” George replies.  He finishes his glass and he pours another.  Finishes that drink in less time than it took for him to pour the first.  Lafayette lifts his own wine to his mouth.  Tastes it against his lips.  He doesn’t pull it in.  Doesn’t swallow.  But he keeps the facade.  He’ll keep it for as long as he has to.  “What do you want today, boy?”

The wording must be specific.  There are catches to everything he says.  Hidden clauses and meanings that Lafayette doesn’t care to entertain.  He needs to be careful.  Adding a conjunction makes it worse.  Makes it seem like two wishes instead of one.  He lets his tongue slide across the wine.  “After I bring him a plate of food for dinner, I would like to spend some time speaking with John Laurens.”

He’d thought about asking to see Washington.  Thought about pulling that thread to see what would occur.  He wanted to.  Lord knows he wanted to.  But he also knows that King George visits Washington almost every other day.  To talk, to gloat, to tease.  Lafayette’s been ordered to stand quiet and out of sight.  Stand still and don’t move.  Just stare at the wall that sits across from Washington’s door, and know that he’s not allowed to look.

It’s Hades and Eurydice, where Lafayette plays Orpheus.  Commanded don’t look back.  Don’t look back.  And if the guards stationed on either side of Washington’s door confirm that Lafayette kept his gaze steady the whole while, then the King permits Washington to have an extra mug of water.  Some more cheese on his plate.  The occasional taste of wine.

Lafayette doesn’t need to bargain to see Washington.  He knows Washington is well taken care of.  Has listened to his General.  Has seen him briefly in the window when he walks the grounds.  He knows Washington is unhappy, but he doesn’t need to see his physical well being to confirm that.

John Laurens, however, Lafayette has heard surprisingly little of.  For a man who had such passion and energy, who fought long and hard and fast, John’s captivity has been kept relatively silent.  It carries none of the enforced regulations of Alex’s commutation.  None of the strict protocol of Washington’s.

He’s a political prisoner, yes, but he’s one that’s being paid for by ransom.  And George has been oddly quiet as to what the terms of John’s ransom are.  Aside from John’s lock of hair, sent to Henry Laurens weeks ago, Lafayette has heard or seen no trace of John.  It’s altogether disquieting.

George takes his time in answering ‘yay’ or ‘nay’.  He swirls his drink about his glass. Ruminates with the occasional humming noise that sets Lafayette’s teeth on edge.  It’s the waiting that Lafayette finds most disquieting.  The endless waiting George makes him endure.  Anticipation driving him forward, desperate for reprieve.  He wants to know what he needs to do to see John, and the endless wealth of possibilities are just as maddening as the lack of power Lafayette feels.  

He knows full well that he doesn’t control this situation.  Knows full well that there’s nothing he can do to turn the tables.  Not yet.  Not with the limited resources that he has at his disposal.  But with each passing day George unknowingly provides access to vulnerabilities George likely didn’t even know he had.

With each passing day, Lafayette memorizes them.  Keeps them in a list in the back of his head, and idly dreams about what he can do with each one.  He muses about them when he’s forced into immobility.  When he plays the part and does what George says.  Clear his mind and focus on what he can.  What’s in front of him.

Make a plan.

And no matter what, keep up appearances.  Lafayette drinks a few small swallows of wine.  Slides his eyes toward the ornate clock on the wall.  Waits his turn. “What would you say if I told you that I wanted you to sleep with a woman?” George asks.  Breaking the silence with such an openly interested tone that Lafayette half wants to throw his glass at the man’s head.

He doesn’t.  But the wine does turn sour on his tongue.  Adrienne’s voice echoes in his ears.  Her smile glimmers out of the corner of his eyes.  

She’s a balm when he sleeps.  A dream during the day.  Something he can reach for. Can work for.  Can know is protected at all times.  They’ve discussed him being unfaithful.  With an ocean between them and a war to fight, they’ve discussed it.  And those discussions were for _them._  Not for George to pervade.  Not for him to slip in and try to change or alter.  It was for _them._  “I made a vow,” he told the King tightly.

His response is met with a snorting laugh.  Piggy sounding and wrong.  George sets his wine to the side and stretches out his long legs.  “Tell me, who is more important to you?  Some woman you met when you were fourteen and barely knew what lay between your legs, or the men you served and fought with for half a decade?”

Adrienne.  In the end, it was always going to be Adrienne.  But the comparison is gut wrenching.  It’s the same as asking which sense he’d prefer to be divested of.  His eyes?  His nose?  Tongue?  Touch?  If he cannot see his wife, how can he reflect upon her beauty?  If he cannot smell her perfume, how can he dream of her when they are parted and he catches whiffs of it on the wind?  If he cannot taste her, how can he tell her how flawless she is?  If he cannot touch her, how can he feel her wrap her arms around him as he carries her through the flowers?  Her hair fluttering past his cheeks.  Her lips teasing his ear.  Her heat.  Her warmth.   _Her._

He’d not wish to be parted with any of his senses, but by God he’d choose one if it meant losing her.  And he feels the same agony in thinking of Alex.  John.  Dear Washington.  Strike down his smell, his tongue, his touch.  Let him gaze upon her and relish in her beauty, but know he’ll never be whole again.  

Lafayette takes another sip of his wine.  Struggles to phrase his response.  “My...wife and children will always be my priority,” he replies.  George’s reaction is beatific.  He’s almost serene in his acceptance.  Nodding languidly as he lounges further.

He flicks his hand toward his desk.  “I’d never require a man to forsake his vow to God.”  Lafayette waits for the conjunction.  “But, I would require a man to lie.”

 _He cannot be serious._  Lafayette glances at the table.  Then back at the King.  “Well go on,” George demands.  “Write your darling wife.  Tell her of an affair.  Seek her forgiveness.  Shall she forgive you I wonder?  Is a conversation with John Laurens worth the wrath of the woman you love?”

 _Yes._ Lafayette thinks, trying hard to not show any sign of confused pleasure.  Because a letter to his wife is more important than no contact at all.  And if there is one thing he knows for certain, it’s that Adrienne is no fool.

He fetches a pen from George’s inkwell and sets to writing.  He’d accept any wrath Adrienne felt like bringing.  But he doubts, more than he’s ever doubted anything in his life, that her wrath will be for _him._  George may enjoy playing his games with Lafayette, but as he sets pen to paper, Lafayette cannot help but imagine how _little_ George would enjoy playing such games with Adrienne.

They’ve been married for seven years.  Friends for nine.  In all that time, Lafayette’s never once beaten her in a game of chess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lafayette and Adrienne were married young, there is a non-explicit memory of their first time having sex together. Technically underage, but between two very consenting individuals in a married relationship.


	9. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings at the end

The servant who’s not his wife brings him food and likes to smile.  She doesn't listen to him when he tries to talk to her.  Just sets the food down on the floor, and smiles at him before stepping backward and walking away.  Locking the door behind her.  John sat at the window for days, curled up against its panes, fingers tracing the bruises around his throat until they healed.  And when they were finally gone, she smiled at that too.

He got another bath after that.

John flinches at the memory.  Hands holding him down.  His head pushed into the water again and again.  Roughly dragging a blade over too short hair that didn’t need to be cut.   _Can’t you see I don’t have lice?_ He’d asked time and time again.  Whenever he could catch his breath.  Could manage to talk.  Could get through the burning feeling in his lungs when he couldn’t speak.

After the first time, it turns into a battle.  The man with the knife, John still doesn’t know his name, approaches, and John scrambles.  Kicking up off his seat at the window and striking out.  He gets a few lucky shots in, manages to knock one to the ground on most attempts.  But there’s always too many of them.  

They get him, hold him tight.  Push him to his knees and hold him in place.  Rough fingers digging around his throat.  Squeezing harder and harder.  He bites.  Screams.  Shouts and fights.

It never does anything.

Sometimes he catches sight of the serving girl.  Most of the time he doesn’t.  Most of the time his vision fades to black and his head swims.  Drowned by the flow of water over his ears.  He dreams vividly.  Sees Martha—Mary—floating around the edges of his room.  Dandelions in her hair.  

She liked dandelions.  Liked sitting in the grass and plucking them from the earth. Blowing against the white fluffy heads and scattering the seeds all across the world.  Before everything went wrong between them, he used to sit outside with her.  Help her collect dandelions so she could weave them into crowns.  He even let her put one on him once.  Just for a day.  It’d been a good day.

There’s always a dandelion when he wakes up.  Sitting in the mug by his window.   Mocking and teasing in one.  He hates it.  Hates that his wife can show up and tell him that she’s there for him, and then only leave him flowers after he’s finished getting beaten.  Hates that she doesn’t come back.  He wants to talk to someone.  Anyone.  Even if he needs to call her _Mary._ He’d call her that if she came for him.  He would.  He’d call her anything.

But the flowers are awful and he hates that it feels like they’ve been given with the same good will as that lemon cake.  The one Mary's friends enjoyed shoving into his mouth until he choked and gagged.  Hardly able to taste it.  Hardly able to work out why he’d been given it in the first place.

Still, the other servant girl comes in.  Smiles at him.  Scans his body.  He offers her a “Good morning," and only means it a _little_ spitefully.  He offers her “Good night,” and prays it’s really _goodbye._ He’d be very happy to never see the wench ever again.  He wants his wife.  He wants anyone else.  Please.

But she always comes.

The baths continue.  And he wakes up to dandelions at the window sill.  He plucks the petals while watching the ravens.  Plucks them until there’s nothing left.  Just the torn remains of a stem.   _I’ll be free...I won’t be free. She loves me...she loves me not._

His raven comes not long after breakfast each day.  Sitting opposite him.  Tapping on the glass and waiting for him to acknowledge it.  “You know you could find a different window,” John tells it.  His voice croaks when he speaks, but he’s half certain if he doesn’t speak he’ll go mad.

He rubs a hand around his throat.  Squeezing at the bruises there.  Trying to keep them vibrant for a while more.  His muscles feel stiff and swollen, but he doesn’t care.  He’d rather not go through with their ritual if he can help himself.

“You have any lady friends?” John asks the raven.  It caws at him.  Wings fluttering.   “Male friends?”  He doesn’t know his ravens well enough to tell the difference.  It’s big though.  So he assumes it’s male.  But that’s hardly an identifying trait.  

Closing his eyes, John presses his body more firmly against the glass.  He wants to go outside.  Wants to breathe the fresh air.  Feel the wind that his avian visitor uses to glide up and down from the tower.  Its wings are clipped.  John’s seen the raven fly awkwardly and off kilter.  It can manage the distance to his window, but John doubts it can do much more than that.

Poor bird.   “Trapped here too, huh?”  John asks.  He fiddles with the dandelion stem.  Rotating it over and over in his hands. It’s starting to twist and frey.  Starting to look worn and ragged.  Not unlike himself he suspects.  He laughs slightly.

Hours pass slowly.  The bird comes and goes as it pleases.  Never explaining why.  Maybe it’s feed time.  John doesn’t know.  The bird _looks_ well fed in any case.  He tries pacing again, but always ends up curled against the window.  Squeezing his dandelion stem and tapping against the glass in hopes the raven will come back.

Night falls, and the key slips back into the lock of his door, he tries to feel his throat.  Check if it’s still bruised.  But he can’t see it.  Can’t confirm one way or another.  Anxiety spikes, absurdly, in his chest.  The door opens, and he’s startled.

It’s not the girl.

It’s not even Martha.

“Laf—” John’s scrambling to his feet.  Lafayette sets the plate of food he’s holding down on the ground.  Kicks the door shut behind him.  He closes the gap between them in two good strides, and tugs John to his chest.  Arms wrapping around him.  Holding him tight—

 _—No._ It’s like a gunshot’s gone off.  John jerks.  Scrambles.  Shoves at Lafayette until his friend goes tripping backwards, staring at him with wide eyes.  John’s hands are raised between them, but his palms are shaking.  He feels cold sweat break out across his body.  Build on his brow as his lungs refuse to breathe. 

His brain provides no answers.  Explains no rationale.  Lafayette’s hurt by it.   _God no,_ John’s lips move around words he can’t seem to give voice to.  He cannot even explain what had just happened.  He presses his hand to his face and takes a deep breath in.  He’s shaking badly now.  

It’s the moment right after a battle’s been fought and the adrenaline is still coursing through limbs that stay grudgingly still.  John can’t control it.  He tries to force his limbs into submission, but they won’t go.  Won’t listen.  All the while Lafayette, sweet young little Lafayette who’s doing the best he can, is standing in front of him.  Seemingly far more wounded than he’d been at the battle of Monmouth.

John squeezes his thumb and forefinger into his own temples.  The pain grounding him somewhat as he tries to replay the exchange.  He loved hugging Lafayette.  Loved holding him close.  Knowing he was well.  He and Alex and Lafayette had always been physically affectionate with each other.

Exchanging kisses in greeting, resting head to shoulder, head to lap.  Bodies held close on a cold winter’s night.  There had never been a moment that they’d faltered in their affections.  Never a moment where they’d shoved another away.  And John had wanted the embrace.  He knows that.  He’d seen Lafayette and wanted nothing more than to pull the younger man to him.  To confirm he was well.  That he hadn’t been harmed since their capture.

But…There are hands on his arms pushing him down.  An arm around his waist, keeping him still.  Water drowning him in the guise of a bath.  His skin is sparking painfully.  His head is lost at sea.  He pulls his hand from his face and he looks at Lafayette and the very _idea_ of being held by him is both repugnant and necessary.

John steps toward his friend.   “I’m sorry,” he manages to get out.  Lafayette doesn’t move to close the gap between them.  He’s perfectly still.  Statue-esque.   _God he’s_ _just a kid._ How old is he now? What month is it? Twenty-three? Twenty-four? He’s so young.  The youngest of all of them, and he’s trying.  John _knows_ he’s trying.  But he’s playing a game where none of the rules make sense and the pieces change without rhyme or reason.

There’s nothing reasonable about this.  

John presses a kiss to each to Lafayette’s cheeks.  Let’s his body rest against his for just a moment.  Praying the panic won’t rise again.  But it’s there in a flash, and John steps away before it makes him do something he’ll regret.  Like shove the poor boy again.  Treat him awful, _again_.  After he’d come all this way… “How are you here?” John asks.  

He’s still trembling.  Still not passing off entirely as calm.  Lafayette hasn’t said a word since he’d been shoved.  Kept his attention on John, but hadn’t reacted anyway.  That’s not fair.  If Lafayette had only come here to hold him and stay silent, just like every other bastard in this God forsaken tower, then—

“—I asked the King if I could have dinner with you,” Lafayette replies. _His_ voice at the very least, is musical.  Soft and light.  Accent sliding around each word with such comforting familiarity.  John nods his head quickly.  Yes.  Of course.  That’s all Lafayette would have to do.

“Have you enjoyed playing lord in England?”  John asks, and Lafayette’s eyes form an arc.  Bending at the corners even as his brows raise.  His lips parting.  His arms going to wrap around his body.  Holding himself since John clearly won’t.

John rubs his fingers together.  Pushing at the sparks that ignite beneath his skin.  Trying to keep the tingling nerves at bay.  He wants more.  He wants to do more.  Say more.  He wants a reaction.  “I imagine King George isn’t nearly as good a conversationalist as _your_ King,but—”

“—Stop it.”  Whatever hurt Lafayette had felt from John’s previous comment is well hidden before he manages to end his second.   He may be three years younger than John, but he’s a soldier same as him.  A commander and a leader of men.  He’d been John’s superior for years, and never had John exacted this level of vitriol on him.  Especially so unwarranted.  “You wish to fight someone?”  Lafayette asks sharply, striding to John.  Ignoring the space John desperately wanted to maintain between them.  “You want to hurt someone?  Watch them bleed?  Well it will not be _me._ I am your friend, John Laurens and if you wish to fight someone you’d best wait for someone else, because I will not fight you.”

“Too afraid?” John taunts, but it sounds breathy.  Weak.  Their proximity is suddenly far too alarming, and he wants more space.  He takes a step back.  Then another.  Another.  His heels smack into the wall behind him.  His eyes are wide.  He can feel sweat starting to drip in rivulets down his cheeks.  

All the while, Lafayette looks at him.  Looks at him and takes in his pathetic shape and appearance.  “Sit down,” Lafayette orders him, and John sits.  Sliding down the wall until his rump hits the ground.  The frenchman retrieves the plate of food he’d brought with him.  He holds it out to John expectantly, but John knows his hands are shaking too bad to pick it up. To hold it.  

It is settled by his left hip, and John laughs.  He doesn’t know what else to do.  “Are you going to play nursemaid?”

“Are you going to behave?”  Lafayette retorts.  He sits across from him, leaning against the side of the bed John cannot stand to sleep in.  Cannot stand to wake up in after his ‘baths’, clothes removed and sheets fresh.  Feel of rough cotton against his cheek.

“Behaving never been my strong suit,” John says.  His fingers tap uselessly against themselves.  He thinks about sitting at the window and tapping for his raven to come.  Showing Lafayette his companion.  But he doesn’t want anyone to know that he gets a visitor.  Doesn’t want them to keep his raven away from him.   _Please don’t take it away._ “When I was sixteen I put my sister in a carriage and had the driver take us through the bumpiest paths available.  Racing headlong as fast as we could.  Quick turns and divots everywhere.  A lesser carriage would have lost a wheel.”

“For what purpose?” Lafayette asks.

“I wanted to see if she were fearless.”

“And was she?”

“She was.” His father had written him a stern rebuke afterwards though.  Reminding him that he needed to be more gentle with the fairer sex.  That his duty was to protect his family, not frighten them or attempt to see their mettle.  His duty was to lead them into prosperity.  The head of the household. “Don’t think my father much likes how I’ve turned out,” John can’t help but tack on uselessly.

“He still pays your ransom,” Lafayette reminds.  John shrugs his shoulders.  Picks at the food that Lafayette brought.  There’s a good assortment today.  Fine food, too.  Meats and breads and cheeses.  Vegetables.  It’s warm.  Martha certainly didn’t cook it.  Lafayette must have brought him this meal specifically.  Labored until he managed to get everything just right.  

Like the lemon cake, John knows it won’t sit right.  He knows he’ll throw it up not long after Lafayette leaves.  Coughing and spewing into a bucket that will fill the room with stench.  He’ll get another bath.  John’s hand goes to his throat again.  Squeezing and releasing.  

Make it stop.  Delay it.  Do whatever he can do.  John’s eyes fixate idly on the door.  “You ever wonder why parents aren’t more original when they name their children?” It’s a non-sequitur, but Lafayette’s been friends with Alex far too long for it to matter.

“It’s meant to be an honor,” he says.  Circumventing John’s tangent before it begins. John doesn’t care.  He’ll say it anyway.

“I know three Marthas; there’s Mrs. Washington, my sister, my wife, and of course there’s the Georges of the world.  You named your son after the General, and maybe his parents named Washington after King George—”

“—Washington is older than the king,” Lafayette intercedes, but John keeps talking over him.

“—Which means your son is really named after the man who’s torturing us.”

“Torturing?” Lafayette asks calmly.  John blinks.  Shakes his head.  Drops his hand tohis lap.

The skin around his throat tingled and burned.  He wanted to put his hand back.  Wanted to hold onto it. “A figure of speech,” he says awkwardly, even as Lafayette’s eyes narrow and his spine straightens.

“A figure of speech,” Lafayette asks him.  “With your hair shorn and your throat bruised it is a figure of speech?”

“It’s still bruised?” John asks.  And damn him.  He sounds _relieved._  Even to his own ears he can _hear_ the relief.  Can feel how it’s actually lessened some of the tension around his shoulders and left him feeling strangely adrift with contentment.  Lafayette doesn’t react to it.  Doesn’t physically do much of anything at all.  He just tells him, yes.  His throat is an impressive shade of blood red and purple.

Once, when John was in Sweden, he and Francis Kinloch would ride their horses across the fields.  They’d been teenagers.  Joking and laughing.  Playing games that were far beneath them, while at turns also far too mature.  John didn’t have any idea what he was doing.  He’d traded kisses on the grass.  He’d felt his body come alive.  He’d matured under his friend’s gentle touch.  And he’d raced him home so they could go to bed, wake up, and carry on the next day.

Francis had a way about him.  Wicked smart and far too fast.  He challenged John to a race that lasted nearly an hour.  And it only ended when John’s horse had found a rabbit hole and lost its footing.  Down went the horse.  Down went John.  He tumbled across the grass, rolling for yards and yards.  

Francis needed to turn about.  Ride back to him.  He’d jumped from his stallion.  Rushed to John’s side.  Pulled him up and hurried through apologies as he looked over John’s body.  He pawed at John’s clothes until he lifted the hem.  Revealing an already majestic bruise that spanned from John’s hip to his lower rib.

It lay near black beneath his skin.  The purple so dark it smarted even without being touched. Flecks of red drip around the corners.  He never broke any skin, but he felt it all anyway.  Francis had kissed his side.  Kissed every bruise.  Set John’s mind to fields of light and love, the pain hardly registering at all.

But he remembers the bruise.  He remembers how it looked so strange upon his skin.  Like ink drying poorly on the desk it dripped onto.  “Is it like that?” he asks Lafayette.  Rambling through the tale.  Stumbling over Francis.  His friend listens to him with the same expression he’d had when he’d first been struck all those minutes ago.  Startled and offended. Sorrowful and lost.

“John…” Lafayette murmurs.  “Please, John, can I hold you?”

It’s not the answer to the question he asked.  It’s not what John’s looking for.  What he wants to hear.  He shakes his head no.  He doesn’t want Lafayette’s arms around him.  Doesn’t want him talking away bruises or pretending...John doesn’t even know why he doesn’t want it.  He just doesn’t have it in him to process it.  Not yet.  Not now.

“Is that what it looks like?” he asks instead.  It’s important.  He wants to know how bad the bruise is.  Wants to know how much time he has.  The wound on his side had healed after four weeks.  But he cannot imagine the girl letting him go that long.  Cannot imagine her letting him heal entirely.  

“Yes, John, that’s what it looks like,” Lafayette agrees.  He shifts, and John’s hands come back up.  Warding off.  Nervous.  But his friend looks like he’s shot him through the heart, and John bites his lip savagely.  He turns his hand over and lets it reach out for Lafayette to take.  Slowly.  

Pale fingers, too pale really, cross the air between them.  Gently lower so fingers meet palm.  John bites back on the initial surge of panic.  On phantom pains that don’t exist because Lafayette would never hurt him.  “Come here…” John manages, and he pulls Lafayette so Lafayette’s curled at his side.  Head on his lap, arms tucked to his own chest.  He’s not holding John.  Not keeping him pinned.  But he’s there, and John can settle an arm around his shoulders, and he can pretend that he’s comfortable enough to do this.

The sensation is nice.  In its own way.  Lafayette’s warm and familiar.  Not like Francis.  “Did I ever tell you about Francis?” John asks.  Lafayette nods his head.  Brow shifting pressure on his leg.  Hair knotting against John’s trousers.  “Oh.”  John’s fingers set to sliding throughLafayette’s hair.  “I named my daughter Frances.”  

“How old is she?” Lafayette asked.

“Four,” John tells him.  Lafayette’s hair feels soft under his fingers.  Not crusted with powder.  Dry or brittle.  There’s a ribbon tying it back in a tail, and John pulls at it.  Silk soft and smooth. “You’ve a daughter that age.”

“Anastasie,” Lafayette agrees, closing his eyes.  John licks his lip.

It’s too quiet.  Far too quiet.  “You’re the only one who talks to me,” John reveals quietly.  “No one else talks to me.  They don’t respond.  Never.  Even Martha stopped talking to me.”

“You haven’t seen her since the war started, yes?”  Lafayette asks.  John doesn’t remember.  Maybe?  He can’t remember if he made Martha up or not.  She doesn’t talk to him when he sees her.  She just floats in the background as the knife pulls across his flesh and he’s left half drowned and sobbing on the bed.

His friend _nuzzles_ against John’s lap, and John keeps petting.  He wants more.  Wants to pull Lafayette up so he’s resting against John proper.  But it’s too much.  Far too much.  John keeps petting Lafayette’s hair.  Tries to soak up as much as he can just from the little touch he can.  “They gagged Alex,” Lafayette says.  John’s fingers still.  “Said he talks too much.”

Lafayette’s hair is perfect in John’s grasp.  “Well...they’re not wrong.”

The frenchman sits up. Twisting so he’s leaning on his hands.  Angling his body so they’re sharing the same air.  One brow arched as he leers at John.  It feels like weary moments at the end of a long walk.  Tired days when they’ve finished a battle.  Joking and teasing and laughing — _another!  Another!_ Lafayette’s lips twitch.  His breath stutters out.

He tucks his head and giggles, and John joins him.  Laughing until he loses breath and can just slouch against the wall.  He can’t remember the last time he laughed.  Sometime on the ship?  He doesn’t know.

“It’s not funny,” Lafayette chastises when they’ve finished.  John nods.  He knows it’s not.   _God._  He knows it’s not.  He’ll be thinking about Alex and gags until the image burns itself into his mind.  He’ll never be rid of it.  But if he doesn’t laugh now he’ll be thrown into a fit.  He’ll squander the time he has with Lafayette.  And he knows he doesn’t have long.  They won’t let him keep Lafayette here.  Won’t let him hold on tight and never let go.  John never wants to let him go.  “You should eat,” Lafayette encourages him.  “You’ve lost weight.”

“I’m not hungry,” John replies.  The answer isn’t acceptable.  Lafayette scowls at him and sits back in his heels.  

“John—”

“—It makes me sick, Laf. I eat and it makes me sick, and then the smell—” The hands holding him down.   _Christ John, it’s just a bath,_ John shakes his head.  “It’s better if I don’t.”

“Is the food bad? Poisoned?”  No.  No it’s not that.  Or maybe it is.  John has no idea.  He shrugs helplessly.  Can’t they just go back to Lafayette laying on his lap?  But the younger man is a dog with a bone, desperate for resolution.  “What doesn’t make you sick?”

“I don’t know, I don’t.  The bread sometimes?  The...squishy thing? I don’t know.” His friend’s pushing himself to his feet.  Getting ready to go forth and find whatever meal he thinks John needs, and John snaps his hand out.  Squeezes Lafayette’s wrist and jerks him back down so they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder.   “You walk out the door and you know you won’t be walking back in.”

John can hear the people outside starting to grow restless.  They don’t have the time for this.  Lafayette will need to leave soon.  “I’ll do another favor,” Lafayette says almost breathlessly.  “I’ll do something else and the King will grant me what I ask.”

No.  Wait. That’s wrong.  John turns his shoulders.  Looks at Lafayette fully.  His hair hangs about his face in a great mane.  His clothes are neat and orderly.  He’s dressed finely.  But there’s a hint of desperation that John’s not sure what to make of.  There’s a glimmer of discomfort that John’s too lost to name.  “What have you done?”  John asks.  

His friend laughs.  It’s not nearly as merry as the tease about Alex had been.  “You don’t need to worry about _me,_ Monsieur Laurens.  I’m not the one who—”

“—You damned idiot, _Gilbert,_ what have you done?”

Lafayette has the gall to look _offended._ “It’s just wishes.  I make a wish and he grants it for a price.”

“Say no.”  John tells him shortly.  “Say no, now.”

“Say no?”  Lafayette repeats darkly.  “Tell me, Laurens.  Lord, _tell me,_ how to say no to this.  If I say no, Alex will get no reprieve from being a _slave._  Our General will see no blanket on the cold lonely nights.  No supper when he is hungry.  And you—no conversation when none will speak with you. Tell me to say no to this.  Tell me to forget about you.”  John’s fingers tighten around Lafayette’s wrist.  He doesn’t want to say the words.  Doesn’t want to push his friend away.  But he sees where this is going.  Sees the end of this road, and Lafayette is going to be burnt by this.

Scarred worse than the brand on Alex’s chest.  “You’re as much a slave to King George as Alex is if you do this,” John tells him.  Trying to get him to see sense.  

“Then I’m a slave,” Lafayette replies.  He twists his wrist.  Clasps John’s arm.  “But at least I’m a loyal one.”

John has no idea what to say to that.  He can’t convince Lafayette.  He knows it’s a fight he can’t win.  Once Lafayette leaves he’ll make his own choices, and John cannot influence him.  But Lord above, he loves this little fool, and Lafayette is going to get a face worth than death if he keeps playing this game.

The frenchman leans in close.  His lips only a breath away from John’s ear.  It’s too close.  Claustrophobic and stifling.  John’s hands rise to push him back, but Lafayette starts whispering.  His fingers freeze around the fabric of Lafayette’s blouse.  “We’re going to be free,” Lafayette says. Softly.  Gently.  “I’ve a plan.”

“Does it involve murder?”  John can’t help but ask, though his heart pounds hard and his fingers tighten around the silk.

“It very well might,” Lafayette agrees.  “But I need you alive for it to work.  So for God’s sake, _mon ange,_ do keep yourself from _dying_ before then, _oui?”_

Lips press against the side of his head.  It’s a hard kiss.  Pressure searing straight through his soul.  Leaning and turning, John chases it.  Finds Lafayette's lips proper and sighs when his friend kisses him right.  It’s far too  short.  But it leaves John tingling blissfully.  He stares up at Lafayette.  Desperate.  Hopeful.  “What are you doing?” John asks.

But Lafayette only smiles.  “Having faith in the people I love.” He kissed John again, and then slides away.  His eyes drift to the floor, and he frowns.  Stares.  John stares too.  The dandelion petals.

“Martha leaves them for me after…” after he wakes up in agony and cannot even remember why he complained or fought in the first place.  When his throat burns too badly for him to breathe, let alone speak.  But he speaks anyway, because _damn them all._

“Martha,” Lafayette repeats the name shortly.  

“She goes by ‘Mary' now, I should call her Mary.  You’ll call her that, right?” He stares up at Lafayette with wide eyes.  Licking his lips.  “Don’t tell anyone.”

His friend is giving him a strange look.  One that John cannot decipher at all.  Lafayette doesn’t mention the name again, though.  Just asks, “Do you know what the flowers mean?”  

“No?  It’s a weed. My wife likes them.  She’s my wife, Martha.  Mary.  Did you know that?” Lafayette nods.

Humming thoughtfully even as his expression turns troubled.  “Dandelions are gifts to loved ones showing the giver’s wishes for your happiness and promises of total faithfulness.”  Of course Lafayette would know that.  Why _wouldn’t_ he know that?  

Why would Mary leave him dandelions anyway?  He was barely her loved one, and total faithfulness sounded a bit more in-depth than anything they ever had in the past.  “Or it’s just a weed,” he offers as a counterpoint.

The door opens almost with a loud clank.  It’s not Mary.  “Marquis,” the horrid woman with her endless smiles demands.  She stands in the entryway with her quirked up and her fierce eyes glaring.

“Do keep yourself alive, Laurens,” Lafayette requests.  They don’t embrace again.  There is no farewell kiss.  Lafayette’s eyes merely scan over the flower petals. As if trying to solve a mystery John realize existed in the first place.

John’s too tired to figure any of that out.  He watches his friend leave, then he closes his eyes. And waits for the raven to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John has been forcibly washed, shaved, and fed continuously throughout his captivity. Because he fights back each time, he has acquired deep bruises from being held down. He has not been harmed in any other way. But the rough interactions, and experience with slight drowning during his 'baths' has left him mentally unstable.


	10. King George

John Adams and Thomas Jefferson couldn’t look more different from each other.  Adams was short and thick.  Protruding waistline held tightly in place by a vest that struggled to hold him in place.  Cravat fluffing up beneath his chin.  His coat was neat and orderly, but his overall demeanor left George feeling more _amused_ by his appearance than anything else.  

Jefferson, by comparison, could almost be considered handsome.  Lightly powdered hair, dressed in the French way, he doesn’t seem to be nearly as rumpled as Adams.  His style far more refined.  Portraying a kind of taste that at least brought him into the modern age.  Jefferson’s slim body and strong jaw presented an appearance of a man who is both thoughtful and intrigued.  He has a good shape for politics. 

George is tempted to arrest them both on sight.  Put them in rooms beside Washington and see how they enjoy being treated as traitors.  But aside from  _ writing  _ the damned Declaration of Independence, Jefferson had remained largely absent in the war.  Enjoying his time as an Ambassador to France.  And Adams had petitioned the courts in the past.  He’s a familiar face, though George longs to be rid of him. 

Nuisance more than hinderance.  

And as surrounded they are by a French entourage who were promised their safety, George is willing to let them state their case.  Louis is playing a game George does not care for, but it’s a game he’ll tolerate for now.  Let Louis think he has the power to dictate who lives and dies in George’s court.  Soon enough he’ll overstep his bounds. 

Again. 

George hasn’t forgotten that he assisted the colonies in their plight.  But that’s a confrontation that can wait.  Great Britain is too far in debt at the moment to substantiate another war.  They’ll need to settle that before addressing Louis and his knife in the dark.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” George asks.  His ministers, advisors, and members of parliament have all gathered around to watch this latest development grow.  Pretty Angelica Schuyler in her bright dress standing at the back.  

Neither Adams nor Jefferson so much as look at the other the entire time they’re at court.  They stand nearly three feet apart.  A lack of solidarity that is both amusing and curious.  If the colonies cannot even send ambassadors who can work together, what was even the point of sending anyone at all? 

Adams spins a nice tale.  Discussing how they’ve lost the war, and they’ve understood the consequences, but it’s time to focus on the post war efforts and how the colonies will be treated henceforth.  He describes unity with Britain and a way that the colonists can be proud British citizens once more.  A whole kingdom, separated by an ocean but no less a part of Britain itself. 

Jefferson describes grievances that have arisen, confusion caused be almost lawless behavior exacted on the orders of British soldiers.  Rapes and ‘murders’ that have occurred from the most northern territories down to the most southern.  They seek understanding, clarification, and a way to come to terms with their post-war status. 

“The colonies will continue to serve at the King’s pleasure,” George reminds them.  “The taxes, will be paid for in the manner that I’ve described.  All taxes, including the ones you so gleefully decried to be  _ improper _ will be reinstituted and levied with the greatest care and expedience.  Those who cannot pay such taxes will be hanged as traitors to the crown.” 

Adams seems disturbingly uncomfortable with such proclamation.  He shifts awkwardly where he stands.  A little man with far too mild mannered a temperament for such proceedings.  Jefferson's expression is almost wry.  “Your grace, we only sought our independence after our petitions were met unanswered,” Adams attempts to persuade. 

“You sought independence when you no were denied an answer you wanted,” George clarifies.  “It is not John Adams who rules this country.  Who governs the colonies and all of Britain’s territories.  It is  _ King George III.  _  It is my right to hear your pleas, and to deny them as I will.  You overstepped, reached for something I would not grant you, and then, like spoiled children, entertained yourselves with tantrums while thousands of soldiers died.  A waste of money?  A growing debt?  If you felt taxation was difficult prior to the war, please enlighten us on why you believe it will lessen  _ afterwards?” _

“The colonists struggle to bear the burden, your grace,” Jefferson explains calmly.  “A longer term tax program that would enable the colonists to grow the economy as well as add to the National Treasury would be amenable to both parties.”

It’s laughable they presume to understand the intricacies of Britain’s debt burden.  The bank and its needs.  Were Britain prospering, perhaps their case may hold some validity.  George could understand if they were making excessive profit off of the Colonies.  As it stands, however, the treasury remains empty.  Home to rats and dust, nary a coin in sight. 

They’d needed to borrow for this war, and borrow handsomely at that.  Now that they’ve re-established their control on the colonies, they’ll need to keep them.  And that too will cost more money.  Salaries for soldiers, pensions, new structures and continued infrastructure, the colonies are an expense in of itself.  And it is only growing worse by the day. 

“The taxation of the colonies will not abate.”  If anything, George fully intends to find new tariffs to place on the people.  Anger still burns hot in his heart when he considers what they’ve done.  How they’ve dared to treat his benevolence.  They made a promise when they moved to the new territories.  They would pay their share and be subservient to the King and they responded with senseless violence.  “If that’s all you’ve come to say,” George raises a hand to call the session concluded, but Jefferson is shaking his head. 

He bows a little in proper deference.  “What of the soldiers and those who assisted the war effort?  How are they to be treated?  If every man is to be punished for their place in the rebellion, then there will be few workers remaining to tax.  Few families or businesses to support your desires.”

The point is not lost on George, and he’s ruminated on such things for several days already.  Even as he kept a careful eye on Washington’s boys, he’s pondered how to the colonists as a whole should be punished.  “Your leaders of your rebellion are in my custody and there they shall remain as examples to you all,” George replies.  “The common man may return to his business.  But he  _ will  _ conduct himself in the manner befitting a loyal servant of the crown, or like his General in my Tower—he will be punished.” 

Jefferson’s lips tightened.  He nods curtly.  “Thank you, your grace.”  George has no desire to hear Jefferson’s thanks.  He wants him to convinces his people how to live properly in the colonies as true servants of the crown. 

“Perhaps if you can manage that,” George suggests, describing his dream to the court.  “Your colonists won’t be so eager to rush off and die.  Fighting a war against our great nation.  Like  _ imbeciles.”  _

The taxation will continue, and George will see to it that his men are all fully compensated for their efforts in protecting the crown’s property. 

_ Heavy is the head that wears the crown,  _ George thinks as he settles back in his chair.  His ministers were quite demonstrative in their support for his plans.  They agreed wholeheartedly on the repercussions facing the colonies.  No more death and despair, that will hardly make the treasury grow.  It’s been surprisingly refreshing.  Having a court that actually listened to him for once. 

Who didn’t fight or argue.  Who didn’t tell him him how foolish he was to keep on fighting a war that only bankrupted his government.  They’d been clamoring on top of one another, fighting for top place in line, all attempting to be the one to make it clear how useless the colonies were.  And they were all wrong. 

_ I was right,  _ George knows.  The colonies had fallen into line, and he’d defeated all of them.  He’d beaten them back, quashed their rebellion, kept them in line.  And now his ministers admitted he was right.  Their silence, perhaps, more valuable to him than all the colonies combined. 

George waves his hand.  Done with both Adams and Jefferson.  Eager to send them back to whatever cesspool they crawled out of.  Adams bows low and backs away as is proper, but Jefferson remains.  Expression almost contrite as he dips his head.  “I also bring a message from France.”

That, George supposes, he’ll entertain.  “Speak.” 

“King Louis inquires about the health of  _ le Marquis de Lafayette _ .”  Jefferson’s French is academic.  Precise.  George imagines he’d practiced it for hours.  Reading books and taking notes in dictation.  It doesn’t have the slightly curved accent of Lafayette’s French, though the few words he speaks are done with great confidence. 

George sighs and settles himself in his seat.  He taps his fingers around the ends of his chair’s armrests.  Starting from the little finger and rolling inwards.  Irritation, he hopes, visibly palpable.  Jefferson doesn’t seem entirely remorseful for his question, though the skin around his cheeks do color slightly. 

Today’s been a lesson in good government, George hopes.  His ministers and members of parliament assembled.  Gathered around.  Eager to tell him their reports and to accept his divine judgement.  He’s reviewed their information critically.  Listened to their advice prior to forming conclusions.  Proving that the monarchy  _ can  _ have a more influential role in the government.  That his word  _ should  _ be law.  He’s met with John Adams and Thomas Jefferson both, and has threatened neither.  And yet Jefferson’s still here.  Pushing onward as though he had a right to keep talking without permission. 

As though he truly could pass messages from the King of France.  Louis’ retinue is surrounding Jefferson.  If Louis had any intention of  _ truly  _ inquiring about his beloved Marquis, he could have sent anyone else.  That he’s having Jefferson do so is both insulting and infuriating. 

Jefferson, for all his plays at being noble, is a common man with too big ideas.  A rich farmer who read far too much.  Who believed he had a place amongst his betters, though he’d done nothing to earn it.  Merely set words to paper in a pretty way.  Any parrot can be trained to speak.  That does not make him a man. 

Yet George’s ministers lean forward in their seats.  Parliament waits on baited breath for a response George has no legal requirement to provide.  He cannot help but feel annoyed by Jefferson’s presence.  Annoyed by how he encourages his advisors to slip back into bad habits. They wish to take the government away from him, and George will not allow it to pass.  Britain and the Americas are his, and he will not give them reign. 

“And Louis sends  _ you  _ to inquire about  _ le Marquis?”  _ George asks.  Biding his time as he decides how best to respond. 

Louis had sent him letters in previous weeks, and he’s replied to each one in kind.  The sweet, young, little boy was in good health.  Well fed.  Well dressed.  He’d received the first of the Marquis’ wife’s payments, and he expects regular payments in the future.  

Even now, Lafayette ran errands about the Palace.  Fetching papers and organizing documents.  A glorified steward with an accent that was pleasing to the ear.  Not as harsh or clinical as Jefferson’s.  Just sweet and light and fluid.  Childishly bright.  Not nearly as stuffy and irritating as Louis’ own. 

Clearly,  _ le Marquis  _ had spent far too much time speaking English.  Despite how his allies clearly spoke his language well.  His generals had informed him of the bastard’s fluency, and he’d recently heard reports that John Laurens has been chittering about in French in his room.  Bored with no one to talk to, he’s taken to talking to himself.  Not uncommon, though it remained amusing.  It’s only been four months.  Poor child.  He’s no idea what life he’s yet to live. 

Jefferson keeps his tone carefully neutral as he replies, though George imagines he’s judging him.  Casting aspersions in his mind that George would very much like to respond to.  His fingers tighten around his arm rests.  “King Louis most concerned with  _ le Marquis,  _ and wishes to be certain that you understand that the good sir’s health is of primary importance to his majesty.”

George grits his teeth.  Louis has no place in this court.  No place in making demands or requests.  In implying that George has somehow overstepped his bounds.  “Then he should have forbidden the boy from becoming involved in a war that was not his war to fight,” George snapped back. 

The ministers start muttering amongst themselves, and George can feel his temper rise.  He wonders, idly, what Louis’ reaction would be to knowing how well his dear Marquis serves George.  How he will immediately go to his knees and beg so sweetly for the lives of his men.  How he doesn’t flinch or hesitate.  Merely accepts that George’s will is the will of God, and that it is the only will he needs to follow. 

The fall has started in earnest and the rains have begun dripping from the sky. Storms brewing and upturning leaves.  Cracks of thunder and lightening that would encourage any sane man to stay inside.  Keep dry.  George gives his hostage that option.  And he gives him the option of running errands in the rain.  Of fetching meaningless trinkets just to see if he’d do it. 

_ Don’t send Alexander into the storm,  _ the fool boy requests each time.  He’s firm on it.  All of his wishes funnelling to Alexander after his last meeting with john.  George has half a mind to tell the staff to only feed John once a day instead of twice.  Just to see if it will break the Marquis’ mold. 

But for now he lets the pretty prince have his way.  Lets him think he’s had freedom from this particular round.  Enjoy the tete-a-tete another time.  It’s tiring to come up with tasks for the boy.  Especially as he seems determined to do them all.  Foolish child. 

“Even so,” Jefferson presses forward.  “What’s done is done, and  _ le Marquis _ —”

“—is  _ my hostage.”  _  George roars.  He stands up.  Ermine cloak crumpling off his shoulders and onto the chair behind him.  “Do you understand what that means?”  Jefferson hastily nods, but George hardly care.  “It means that until such time that Louis feels like paying for his ransom in full, of which he is  _ more  _ than welcome to do, then the boy stays here.  He stays here and is well maintained, but he  _ will not  _ be leaving.  Should Louis continue to have concerns of his own, I would welcome him to my court to verify his precious musketeer’s well being.” 

To his left and right, George hears the whispers of his ministers.  In the far corners of the room he observes the serving staff watching the proceedings with patient curiosity.  Prepared to spread the rumors that will fill the city streets.  Damn them all to hell. 

“That boy fought a war against our country, killed dozens of good men and led the colonists in a fruitless fight.  He is not an innocent lamb, and still I have treated him with the respect and dignity befitting his station.”  George peers down his nose at Jefferson.  “He has not been harmed.” 

Jefferson bows low.  “King Louis shall be much gratified to hear such things, your majesty.  And also of your generosity in regards to an ambassador.  I am certain he will select such an individual within the fortnight.”

George grits his teeth.  That had not been the point or purpose of his proclamation.  The very idea of hosting such an ambassador chafes.  But he nods his head curtly.  “You are dismissed gentlemen,” he grits out. 

This time. 

They leave. 

***

That evening, long after court has been adjourned, le Marquis has been sent away, and King George is left to his thoughts on his own, he cannot help but feel as though he’s been fooled.  Tricked into opening his doors for the French to do as they please.  A spiral of fury still curls deep within him at the mere thought that they’d assisted the colonies in their attempt to secede. 

Louis had some nerve to believe he could make vain threats without following through with them.  He’ll learn, same as the rest of the world.  George will not take such impudence lightly.  Drinking deeply from his glass of wine, George stares into the fire.  Thoughts twisting around in circles as he rubs his thumb along the glass’s stem. 

A knock interrupts his music, and he beckons the servant in.  A woman.  Dark brown hair and plain clothes. The flower girl, if he remembers correctly.  She arranges the vases about the palace.  Combines them as is proper, and to Queen Charlotte's delight. “Beggin’ your pardon sir, but a letter’s just arrived from the colonies.” 

“Now?” George asks, turning to face her.  He sits up more in his chair.  “And why do you carry it?” 

“It’s from Lord North sir, and he had no man available at this hour.”  She holds out the letter, head ducked in deference.  Curtseying absurdly.  She’s not familiar with addressing him in this situation, and George is too exhausted by the day’s events to care. 

He receives the letter from her.  Thumbing at the resealed wax line.  Clearly North had opened it, and he’d sealed it again to preserve its contents.  Curious, that the letter had been sent to North, given that it’s directed expressly to  _ him.  _  George will need to inquire as to what North had been doing rerouting his mail so obstreperously. 

Scanning the contents of the document though, George cannot help but feel his irritation dissipate almost the moment it arrived.   _Finally._ His bet has paid off.  He starts laughing.  Shaking his head at the timing, not to mention the absurdity of it all. 

“Good news, your grace?” the serving girl asks.  

“Henry Laurens has decided to stop paying his son’s ransom.”  A few locks of hair, an exorberant fee, and the dutiful father has crumbled.  “The boy’s worthless.”  Tossing the letter to his desk, George fetches himself another glass of wine.  He cannot wait to see Washington’s face in the morning when he hears the news. 

He wonders if he’ll finally see the man beg. 


	11. Washington

The guards come for him around noontime.  The sun arching high in the sky, and light filtering in through the windows.  Washington had been dozing.  Head resting against the glass as he'd watched Alexander from afar.  The angle was not the best.  He'd not been able to follow Alexander entirely.  But every so often he'd see the boy rushing to and fro.  Going from place to place. 

He's quick, light on his feet, and he's learned how to avoid those who'd shown open displeasure toward him.  The patrolmen who line the Tower walls have a clearly defined route, and Alexander has quite obviously organized them in terms of personal preference.  Memorizing each place a guard will be and knowing precisely how to avoid their watchful eyes should he not care for them.  It's ingenious, and Washington marvels as he watches Alexander work.

He observes his son change directions just before a guard rounds a bend.  As he walks faster, more circuitously, to get from place to place in an effort to avoid particularly offensive individual.  Lowering his rate of getting a good cuff about the ears.  It all looks so effortless, and Washington wonders where Alexander had picked up such a habit. 

It's not even been half a year yet, but his boy has found cracks in the armor of those who intended him discomfort.  He's mitigated as many variables as possible.  Washington cannot help but be proud.

Alexander's efforts are not entirely successful, of course. At least four times a week Washington sees him get yanked to the side by a rough hand.  A guard or soldier shouting jeering comments while their peers give sharp orders.  Bruised seem to be Alexander's primary state of being these days.  Even from his Tower, Washington can see the injuries.   Occasionally he'll spy a limp.  A stumbling pace.  He'll watch as Alexander will rub at his knees.  But all things considered, Alexander's posture seems most affected.  His back arching over in a slight bow to it that never existed prior.  As if he's so used to leaning over, he cannot help but continue to do so.  If that's all Alexander walks away with...Washington will accept it.  He truly will. 

Even during the war, Washington remembers John teasing that Alexander would end up as crooked as a priest if he continued writing as he did.  Arched over his texts, spine creaking to accommodate such things.  He used to take Alexander by the shoulders and demand he straighten.  Laughing whenever Alexander became particularly irritated.

They'd tussled more than once on the floor of Washington's tent.  Papers flying this way and that as they attempted to prove their own point.  Though if they even knew  _ what  _ they were fighting about, Washington would be amazed.  Sometimes, he truly believed they simply fought to fought.  There was no explanation for it.  Just the desperate need to release energy into the world.

They stopped whenever someone else happened upon them.  Washington had done so more than once, and had rolled his eyes at the pair of them.  Lafayette, usually innocent in such exchanges, had been a failure of an informant as far as his brothers in arms were concerned.  Most of the aides were, in truth.  Lafayette would sit to the side, reading documents and drafting letter.  Tallmadge would be addressing some strategy or correspondence, and if John picked a fight with Alexander­—both would dutifully ignore them and keep their minds focused on their own work.

_ "You encourage them to misbehave,"  _ Washington had chastised his other aides one evening when rheumatism had set his legs creaking.  Weather making him miserable and dreary company.

_ "You cannot deny that their...misbehaving does gladden the mens' hearts,"  _ Lafayette had counseled seriously.  Far too mature for his too few years.  He always knew how to mitigate Washington's moods.  Always knew the proper level of respect and courtesy, teasing and friendship, to use in order to mellow Washington's tempers.   _ "Better they fight each other like this then to bring the whole camp to rancor." _

Washington agreed to let it slide, if only they found other places to argue.  The command center was no place for rough housing. _Honestly._

So.  At least the bent back was likely always going to occur.  Washington could accept it.  He could pretend it came naturally.  A disfigurement plotted like fate in the stars. 

The door to his room opens as Washington muses.  He turns to inspect the men who enter.  Both professionally dressed and refined.  His guards who usually stand watch at his door.  “We’re to take you to St. James’ Palace,” one of the men informs him.  

Strange. 

King George had shown no discomfort in coming to the Tower whenever he wanted to mock or leer.  They’d spoken on more than a few occasions, and the King always seemed entertained by being able to see how Washington was managing.  Preferring the moments he could close the door with a click.  Locking it loudly.  

Washington hadn’t even left the Tower since he’d arrived.  The mere idea of leaving it now seemed far too good to be true. He stands slowly and holds out his hands.  Fully expecting them to be bound.  They are.  The guards are good about it.  They thank him for waiting patiently, don’t chain them too tightly.  Are respectful the whole while. 

They’ve spoken more than once since Washington’s became interred.  Jameson is a good fellow who was a farmer by birth.  He joined the royal guard first as a member of the army, before rising up in the military.  He’s served for twenty years.  He has a family that lives in Liverpool.  They’re very proud. 

Tarly is a younger lad, but he’s no less committed to his cause.  He enjoys a good pun, and crafts them meticulously.  Sometimes for hours.  When he finally creates a new one, he’ll whisper through the door to Washington.   _ “Can...I tell you another one?”  _

Wrists bound, and hands at his shoulders, Washington is carefully brought outside of his room.  Tarly and Jameson talk quietly amongst themselves.  Idle chatter really.  It’s been a long shift for them and they body look a little tired as it is.  

Counting each step down to the ground floor, Washington takes the time to look around.  Spying doors and hallways.  Windows and rooms.  They pass him by before he can truly look into any of them too clearly.  He tries building a mental map.  Tries putting the pieces together in his mind so he can revisit the images later. 

The sun hangs high above them once they finally step outside.  The air is cooler than Washington thought it would be.  Fall weather coming in strong now.  The world seems different too.  Perhaps he’s been staring down at it too often.  He’s forgotten what it’s like to walk amongst the mortals. 

He wonders if this is how God feels.  Disconnected and uncertain.  Footsteps slow as he tries to understand what's been happening in his absence.  Off on the opposite end of the courtyard, he reminds himself to look closely for Alexander.  He usually comes this way around this time. 

Sure enough, his boy does just that.  Rounds the bend, fingers holding the handle of a bucket.  He looks up almost immediately, and the bucket almost falling from his too slack fingers.  His eyes widen and he takes a half step forward before freezing in place.  “Please,” Washington asks Jameson.  “Can I see my son?” 

Tarly and Jameson exchange looks.  They’re debating it.  The whole while Alexander almost seems to be bouncing on his toes.  Energy streaming through him.  He’d get like this before a fight.  Before news arrives and he wants to know the answers.  His worst had been with Eliza.  His dear wife.  When he’d been courting her and waiting for letters informing her of her father’s consent to their marriage.  He’d damn near created his own rabbit-hole with all the thumping he was doing.  Had almost paced a line in the floor of Washington's quarters as he asked for leave to marry.

“Make it quick,” Jameson tells him firmly, and Washington nods.  He takes the six long strides he needs to cross over to Alexander.  For his part, the boy hardly seems to know whether he should salute or shake his hand or fall into the embrace that Washington pulls him into.  Bound arms raising up and over Alexander’s head and folding awkwardly around his spine. 

The bucket _does_ finally crash at Alexander’s feet as he returns the hug fiercely.  He squeezes Washington to his body, clenching so tight that the General struggles to breathe.  It's perfect.  He cannot stop himself from kissing Alexander’s head.  Relish in the feeling that Alexander is _here._  Here and now.  Safe for the time being.  Smelling of sweat and grime, but still as strong as ever.  Muscles tight along Washington's back.  And, Washington marvels, it’s not even alarming to think of him as that.  As his  _ son.   _

True and proper with no sense of hesitation.  Holding Alexander feels _right._ Less a game of pretend and far more a feeling of contentment.  Washington has spent the days of his captivity reminiscing on better times.  Imagining how life could have turned out.  What things could have been different.  If Alexander  _had_ been his son, what would their lives have looked like? 

Would that he could have sired this boy.  He’d have given him joys and pleasures beyond comparison.  Given him delights to offset the endless tragedy that seems to mar the tides of his life.  Horseback rides through Mount Vernon.  Surveying trips into the mountains.  He'd have taught Alexander how to fish properly.  How to recognize his plants and herbs.  Keep him from eating those poisoned berries that left him sick for days once while the Baron chortled and laughed at him in French.  

Von Steuben had been a great purveyor of plants and seeds, and he'd taken it upon himself to educate Alexander when he'd so obviously failed at understanding American greenery.  Washington should have done that.  He'd have enjoyed doing that.  Raising a son from childhood into proud adulthood.  Would that he could have turned back the clocks.  Changed time, gifted himself with a boy he loved as his own.  Just as he loved dear Lafayette.  Just as he'd come to even love John Laurens, for all his temper and erstwhile behavior.  There'd been loyalty deep in John that Washington could never ignore. 

Loyalty that kept them tied together, for better or worse. 

“You’ve been well?”  he asks Alexander.  Not good.  Not great.  Not anything more positive than that.  He _knows_ he can't expect anything more than that.  And Alexander nods against him.  Doesn’t say anything.  Just holds him.  It feels right.  So right. 

“We need to move on,” Tarly tells Washington apologetically.  The moment is broken.  Alexander sighs. 

It takes a moment to untangle himself from the boy.  And he takes every chance he can to memorize what his young aide looked like.  

“Stay alive,” Washington orders him.  Alexander’s lips quirk ever so slightly into a minute smile.  It looks slightly strange on his face.  As though someone had torn it off another body and plastered it to his flesh.  Aside from his lips, the remainder of his features were drooping and sad.  Tears have gathered at Alexander's eyes.  Longing permeating from his skin. 

The pause in his routine to embrace Washington has set Alexander off his schedule, and coming toward them soon are several men who have never been kind to the boy.  They approach like hounds to a feast.  Sniffing for a fresh meal to tear their teeth into.  Jameson claps a hand on Washington’s shoulder.  Starts to pull him back. 

Alexander’s lips part.  The ball of his throat bobs, as if attempting to breathe life into a new word.  But one of his tormentors is quick to catch him by the scruff of his neck and throw him backward.  Alexander trips over his own ankles.  Falls to the ground.  He attempted to catch himself on the bucket, but it tips under his weight.  Making a loud clanging noise as it rolls away. 

“No one wants to hear what you have to say, boy,” the...sergeant, yes those are sergeant's marks, says.  

The fingers on Washington’s shoulder tighten.  He’s guided away with far more urgency, and Washington grits his teeth.  Feet dragging inappropriately as he looks to his boy.  Alexander’s smile is gone in its entirety.  But there is a flash of something that Washington’s sure the sergeant missed.  Before Alexander lifts his head, when his face stares instead to the ground beneath him, his eyes are narrowed.  Anger burned deep within Alexander’s body. 

Eyes tight.  Lips snarling.  Nose scrunched.  Alexander sets it all aside by the time he looks up.  His expression wiped clean of any malcontent.  He stands carefully, and rolls easily with the next hit he receives.  Doesn’t react to the shouted ‘get back to work, bastard!’ and instead merely snatches his bucket and walks away. 

He doesn’t look to Washington again.  Doesn’t say anything else.  But Washington had seen his fury, and is gratified for it.  If Alexander’s managed to keep his temper in check this long, then there might be some hope for him yet. 

“I’m sorry about Smith, sir,” Tarly tells him as they cross the bridge.  There’s a carriage there waiting, and Jameson opens the door and hurries them inside.  Both of Washington’s guards sit across from him, weapons at the ready.  But they’re lax about it.  Calm.  They know as well as he does, he’ll never leave willingly without his boys going with him. 

Alexander’s clearly surrounded by guards, and Washington has no notion where the other two are.  “Smith enjoys the lesser parts of his job more...fondly than the rest of us,” Tarly continues.  “He’s...well suited for it.”  The last bit is said with the raise of Tarly’s eyebrows.  A bright smile.  Jameson actually groans, shaking his head. 

“Not nearly as good as you think it is,” Jameson informs Tarly. 

“He’s in uniform, well suited, do you get it?” 

Jameson’s right, the pun is not nearly as clever as some of Tarly’s other endeavors.  He’d once described a card game played with the Queen where she’d been caught cheating.  She’d had a  _ royal flush.   _ “Yes, you daft bastard, he gets it,” Jameson groans.  “Meaning no disrespect to your boy, sir.” 

“None taken,” Washington replies.  “I entirely understand.”

The guards are pleased by his response, and the remainder of their journey is conducted with graceful silence. 

When they arrive at St. James’ Palace, King George receives him in his private quarters.  His office, a finely decorated space, is arranged for visitors.  An ornate writing desk sits not far away, various chairs and chaises as required by those who seek an audience with the man. George himself is dressed as he is each time Washington sees him.  Bright reds and sashes perfectly in place.  His cloak is absent, and his crown is not the ceremonial one he'd delighted in wearing in the throne room.  But rather a smaller more functional crown that adorns his head proudly.

"Washington," George greets.  "How lovely for you to be here." The man's amused, gladdened by something, that sets Washington's teeth on edge.  He greets the King as is proper.  Waits to be instructed on where to stand or how George wants him.  Washington doesn't care for playing George's games, but whatever reason George wanted this meeting would reveal itself in time.

If there is one thing that Washington has, it's time.  An endless amount of it.  Everything has entirely been taken out of his control.  He cannot determine what or when he'll eat, when he'll be permitted to bathe or wash.  His hair has grown flaky and tangled.  His beard is straggling and long.

His wife would be most displeased if she could inspect his countenance now.  She'd do whatever it is women do that keep him from looking affright.  Addressing his hair and inspecting his teeth.  Mending the holes he's worn into his sleeves as she scoffs at him.  Teasing.   _ "You intend to fight the British without your drawers then?"  _ she'd asked on more than one occasion when his clothes had been fraying too much for her sensibilities to handle.  Martha should have been in charge of the army.  She'd likely have terrified the British into surrendering after their first bout.

George pours himself a glass of wine and motions for Washington to sit.  "Tell me, when did you find out that your bastard was your bastard?"

Lies have a funny way of warping itself around the truth.  Of making themselves sound so true you can become blinded by their beauty.  It's a matter of wants and perspectives.  Martha's son, Jack, had spurred Washington's hopes of fatherhood.  Rejected his cajoling and attempts to parent.  And yet, Patsy had welcomed his behavior.  Encouraged him to spend time with her.  Had called him 'papa' right up until the moment she'd died.  Washington has no notion of _when_ he felt like either of their parents though.

Sometime after the wedding, he suspected.  When the name had already been given to him.  Father.  His step-children had been respectful during the ceremony.  They'd been 'gifted' to him as part of the arrangement.  And he'd known that they were his.  His to raise and tend to and care for.  They never wanted for anything.  Their true father had already seen to that.  And so his responsibility to them was purely emotional.  Remained as such to this day.

But the feeling of  _ true  _ paternity.  The moment when he looked back and knew he was their father and not just a man who entertained their mother, came afterwards.  Slow and subtle.  An event not easily defined.  When the desire to make them smile came from deep within his heart.  When their delight fed his heart's joy, rather than a sense of duty.

Washington had never been blessed with having children of his own blood.  The idea had taunted him.  Sinking his dreams like a stone in a deep river.  He'd wanted a boy to call his own.  A pretty girl he could give the world to.  Patsy and Jack had been lovely but they'd not been truly _his._

He cannot remembers when the rumors started.  

After Alexander received his place as Washington's aide.  After New York, certainly.  After the first few midnight rides where Alexander rode off through the wilds in hopes of delivering a message for Washington.  But soon the rumors were loud enough that even  _ he'd  _ heard them, something the rank-and-file generally tried to avoid.

Washington's bastard.

The only reason Alexander had been given so much leeway was because of blood.

Duty.

Obligation.

As if Washington hadn't demanded Jack behave.  As if he'd never disciplined Martha's children when they'd acted out.  As if he could be so blinded by their relation that he'd let the war efforts fail because of it.

Alexander worked harder than almost every man on staff.  He'd outrun British riders, he hunted spies, he led men into battle.  He fought and he fought well.  They'd have won if Arnold hadn't betrayed them at West Point.  Washington's certain of it.  Louis had just promised them aid.  Lafayette had just returned, gleeful and proud.  They'd have  _ won. _

But the rumors persisted.  And now those same rumors saved Alexander's life, when so many others had been put to death.  Washington watches as George sips his wine.  He wants an answer.  An imagined life story that Washington has been conjuring for weeks.  Months.  A union that Washington has dreamed of being true, even knowing it's not.  He wonders if Alexander's spun a tale as well.  If this is a test of duplicity.

Doubtful.

George has done nothing but talk down to Alexander  _ (at  _ him, really), since the beginning.  Washington cannot imagine that they've exchanged much in the form of communication.  And Alexander knows well enough to keep his own lies simple.  Easily misunderstood so a variety of opinions could be formed.  Keep as close to the truth as possible, and the lies don't seem as extreme.

"During the war," Washington replies stiffly.  The King laughs.  It's not a pleasant sound.  It grates at Washington's ears, and he has to work to keep his displeasure from ghosting across his features. 

"How did that work, exactly?  Any boy off the street tells you he's your bastard and you'd believed him?"

"I'd travelled to Nevis in the year of his birth," Washington cannot deny Alexander's heritage.  Not in its completion.  Those who look for it can find Alexander's accent.  Can tell from his mannerisms he's not been raised in a gentleman's home.  He has not the make or manner of a man who knows how to act like a Lord.

The poor boy needed lessons in dancing so he'd not embarrass himself at his wedding.  If Washington dared to make such an overarching supposition, with Alexander living with him in Mount Vernon...too soon would such lies fall apart.

He'd listened to those rumors too.  He knew exactly which ones to confirm.  He  _ had  _ travelled to Nevis.  The dates  _ were  _ closely aligned.  Close enough to cast doubt, though any learned researcher would know blood could not have flown through their veins.  "I'd not known of him until after he'd been grown.  I knew his mother.  We've...discussed the circumstances of his upbringing."

"Four years to know your child, hm?"

"Six," it's a subtle correction, but he knows Alexander's history.  Knows how long he's served.  He'd been far too young to join the army when he had, but he'd done it anyway.  And the alteration gives Washington more credit.  Provides him an air of careful consideration.  Of course he'd know when he first learned of Alexander.  Of course Alexander would not have waited to reveal such information to him.

King George accepts it as fact, and Washington tries not to feel victorious in his assumptions.  But clearly, the King has never spoken to Alexander.  His  _ 'son'  _ has never once used their relationship for favor, and even if blood  _ did  _ bind them, Washington doubts Alexander would ever draw attention to such things.

Washington has no doubts it would have made him more loyal.  Perhaps a trifle less frustrating at times.  Possibly even colored Alexander's actions and words with the kind of emotion he generally reserved for John or Lafayette.  His wife.  But Alexander would not have boasted his name.  Would not have relished in being called Washington's bastard out loud for all the world to hear.  "Did you tell him to lie?"  George asks.  "All those years...telling any who asked that he was merely a boy at camp.  Did you reject him so thoroughly?"

"He asked to not be treated differently than those around him.  He wished only to serve as good and proper and true.  Not as my son.  Not as my heir.  But a fellow soldier who earned his place on the battlefield."  Alexander may not be Washington's true born son, but Washington  _ had  _ tried to serve as patron to him.   _ Had  _ attempted to imitate the far warmer relationship Washington provided to Lafayette.

A French boy with no parents of his own, desperate for a family, Lafayette had flourished under Washington's attempts at kindness.  Had blossomed so well that Washington had longed to repeat the process with Alexander.  Hoping beyond hope that his aide would accept it.  The tender affection Washington felt for him could hardly have mattered at all to Alexander.

He spurned it each time.

He wanted to be a soldier on his own terms.  Not a spoilt boy who deserved none of the accolades that would come to him.  Washington could not understand it in its entirety, but he could respect it.  Alexander deserved the praise he received.  And if rumors alone had already taken to trying to tear Alexander down, Washington can easily imagine what public patronage or parenting would have done.

"Do you love your son?" George asks slyly. 

"I do."  He'd loved him when he'd seen Alexander fight for him.  Arguing with those who would dissent or desert.  He'd loved him when Alexander stayed awake well into the night transcribing missives like the hounds of hell were chasing his heels.  When he'd dare to argue with Washington and bully him to rest.  When he'd fetch food and water, arrange for Washington's well being above the call of duty.  When he'd gone out of his way to care for Martha when she visited camp.  Tending to her every need despite the duties of his station.  When he'd offered to set aside time for Washington to picnic, relax, and rejuvenate.  When he looked at Washington, and had been fearless.  Impervious to shouts or flights of emotion. 

Alexander argued and yelled, he shouted and cursed.  He fought with John Laurens ridiculously.  But Washington had loved him as a son, and loved him still now.  His brave boy.  Still loyal and fighting despite their current situations.  Washington knows as surely as his heart beats in his chest, that all he'd have to do is give the word and Alexander would rally to his call. 

The next question, Washington could have guessed. Was already assuming would be asked in some lower level of his brain, but had been loath to admit it. "Would you do anything for your son?" George asked curiously.

His answer, should have been obvious by now.  "Yes."

"Even after so few years."

"Even after."  It doesn't matter.  Washington didn't need blood.  Alexander, John, and Lafayette had served him far too well to be cast aside as nothing.

George doesn't start with threats.  Doesn't ask Washington to perform some torturous task.  He smiles brightly and reaches for a piece of paper on his desk.  "Some parents aren't nearly as loyal to their kin." He holds the paper out for Washington to take.

Wrists still shackled, it's an awkward process.  Washington takes the page.  Looks at it carefully.  It's upside down.  Trying to hold onto this irritation, he rotates it.  Fingers pinching the sides until he has it facing right-side up.

_ To his Excellency King George III.  _ The penmanship is familiar.  Startlingly so.  Scanning to the bottom, Washington feel's his lips pull down in a tight frown.  Henry Laurens.  There's a date there too.  From what Washington can tell, it's only just arrived from the colonies. 

Reading the letter takes time.  Henry's script is small and compact.  John had been far more familiar with it, and usually he read his father's messages out loud _for_ Washington.  The content generally important enough that all of the aides needed to respond immediately in various forms.

But even after he reads the letter, he rereads it twice more to ensure he hadn't somehow missed the point.  Hadn't lost a negation somewhere in the scripted scrawl.  Hadn't substituted words where they didn't belong.  The King let him take as much time as he wanted.  Let him scan the document to search for clues.  Let him try to divine an ulterior motive.

There is none.

As far as Washington can tell.

A knock at the door is quickly bid welcome, and Washington glances over his shoulder.  Double taking when he sees Lafayette.  The Frenchman seems equally as surprised to see  _ him.  _  Strides immediately to Washington's side, hesitating only with a glance toward George, before settling.  They do not touch, but it's clear Lafayette wants to.  "General—"

"Washington," George corrects Lafayette briskly.  "He has no titles here."

_ "Sir,"  _ Lafayette insists, "It is good to see you."  Washington cannot summon the joy he'd felt at standing beside Alexander.  His words of kindness have fallen to ash upon his tongue.

His youngest boy looks at him in confusion, eyes flicking down to the letter.  Then back to the King.  "You'll have to excuse  _ him,"  _ George sighs.  "He's just received the news."

"What news, your grace?"

_ Give it life.   _ Washington breathes in deep.   _Make it real._ Releasing his breath, he speaks.  "Henry Laurens will no longer pay his son's ransom."

Lafayette flinches as though he's been shot.  He stumbles back a step.  Eyes wide.  Mouth falling open.  His head shakes narrowly from side to side.  All the color's been lost from his skin.  George  _ laughs _ at Lafayette's reaction.  His ever present amusement reaching heights Washington didn't know it could climb.

George laughs.

Somewhere in London, John Laurens is enjoying his final few moments of peace and tranquility.  Somewhere, he's rested, with no notion of what was about to happen to him.  "Beg me for him," George commands.  Washington knows not where to start.  His life has been a series of mistakes and errors, lost battles and horrible schemes. 

He cannot recall the last time he begged for anything.  And it isn't pride that stops him now.  It's futility.  John's dead.  As good as dead.  Without his father paying the ransom, there's no reason to keep him alive.  He's a traitor, and one whose death has already been accounted for.  Henry doesn't believe John's alive any longer.  The hair...the words in a letter King George has sent, he'd taken it to mean that John had been executed rather than saved.  No one in America is aware of John's continued survival, and King George clearly shows no interest in correcting the misassumption.  

Poor Henry Laurens.  Who made a grave error in refusing to pay John's ransom under the thought his son no longer breathed.  Who would learn soon enough that John's death came at the hands of a folloy of his own making.  His son will die because he wrote a letter to the King, lambasting his actions and refusing to accept that John's survival had already been guaranteed.  Falling into a trap so carefully constructed. 

"How much is John's ransom?" Lafayette asks.

"180,000 livres, to be paid 20,000 livres annum." 

_Why would he say it like that?_   Washington thinks in confusion.  _Livres. Not pounds.  Why not—_ Washington closes his eyes.   _Of course._

"I'll pay it," Lafayette replies.  He's trembling.  Pallor so sickly that Washington wonders if he'll collapse right here in the office.

Across from him, the King smiles with his teeth.  "With what money?  You've none on you that I can see.  Save what I've adorned you in.

"Allow me to write a letter to my wife, she will remit payment for John same as my own.  It hardly matters where the money comes from so long as it's paid, is that not true?"  Lafayette presses.  He's desperate.  And he'll bankrupt himself if he continues like this. 

His yearly income has already been impacted by his own ransom, adding John's to it...his wife and children will be affected.  No doubt.  But it gives them  _ time.   _ Of all things in the world, it's the only thing they can hold onto with both hands.  “The wife that you just wrote to about your affair?” George taunts.  

_ Affair?   _ Washington has no notion what George is referring to, but Lafayette’s nodding.  Nodding desperately.  It’s all he can think of to do. 

But. Washington knows that  _ he  _ can do more. "Please," Washington requests. 

No.

Begs.

He gladly lowers his knees.  Gladly prostrates himself before his mocking King.  Head bent in hopeless desperation.  "Please allow John to live.  Please give Marquise Lafayette time to respond with his ransom.  Please.   _ Please." _

The waiting is mind numbing in its length.  It stretches on and on.  Reaching out to the ends of the earth before slowly creaking back into position.  "I'll allow you to write _one_  letter," George bargains.  _ "If  _ you consent to branding John Laurens yourself."

Henry's letter crumples in Washington's hands.  Lafayette sways on his feet.  His lips are moving.  Forming words he's not vocalizing.  It's too much for him, and George knows it.  It's why  _ he's _ here.  Why he's even been brought from the tower in the first place.  To force a reaction.  To step in when Lafayette falters.  

"I'll do it," Washington says firmly. 

"That's not what I suggested," George replies.  He doesn't even pretend to look shocked by Washington's proposal. 

"You asked me about my son.  About what I would  _ do _ for my son."

"John Laurens is  _ not _ your son," The King intercedes. 

And it doesn't matter.  It will  _ never _ matter.  Washington meets the King's eyes. "He is as good as, and a father knows when they  have  to hurt their children in order for them to survive.  I'll brand him for you," so long as it keeps John alive just a little longer.  Scars, John can live with.  He’ll heal.  Washington knows he will.  A rope around his neck followed by a quick drop?  He'll never recover from that. 

"The sons of George Washington.  Serving together.  My slaves.  Branded as traitors so the whole world can see them for what they are. " The King muses like a child at play.  Unaware of the drastic consequences of his action.  He'll regret every moment forward.  Washington will ensure that he does.  George grins at Lafayette.  "I'd brand you too if your damn King was not so  _ insistent  _ on your health." 

The comment is meant to sting.  But Lafayette's past the point in caring. "Please may I write the letter?" he asks stiffly.  Not looking in Washington's direction at all.

George reaches for a leaf of paper and a black ink quill.  Places them before Lafayette.  "I want my funds by the end of the month.  If it's not in my hand by then, then John Laurens can be the latest prisoner to find his himself executed in the Tower of London.  No brand on earth, no father's love, no misguided pleadings of a disgraced soldier will change my mind on this.  Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, your grace," Lafayette breathes out shortly.  He reaches for the instruments and quickly starts writing like he's running out of time.  Washington only hopes it will be enough.


	12. Alex

Knox is the most mischievous of all the ravens.  He likes to hop about as Alex works.  Repeating sounds and patterns as Alex scrubs the cages clean.  He steals Alex’s rags.  He is particularly fond of untying Alex’s hair.  And more than once, he’s sat on the edge of the bucket refusing to be moved.  

No amount of shooing seems to work on Knox, and he’s fully aware that Alex cannot hurt him in anyway.  So he sits there and caws at Alex until Alex gingerly risks life and limb by stroking Knox’ feathers.  The raven preens under Alex’s ministrations.  Tilting his head this way and that so Alex can scratch particularly hard to reach locations. 

Every so often Edwards will peer into the hutch to see how Alex is making out, and he’ll nod his head approvingly.  “They like you.  It’s good.”  To be fair, Alex isn’t sure it’s a matter of  _ liking him  _ so much as it’s a matter of  _ not liking  _ a dirty pen.  The ravens have been poking at the scrub lines in the floor, expecting Alex to expand them post haste.  They relished in the newly opened windows during the summer, and they complained loudly when he needed to start closing them for the change of season. 

He’d had his fingers bit more than a few times when one of the birds, Gilbert he thinks, decided to make his displeasure known.  “Have you heard the story of the ravens?” Edwards asks him almost every week.  No amount of gestures or nodding of his head is good enough for the man.  Edwards always clears his throat, settles into his position, and tells Alex about why there always needs to be six ravens in the Tower of London. 

“There was a fire you see,” Edwards always starts, aged voice stretching on and on. He coughs into his sleeve occasionally.  Elderly and infirm. “In...1666 I believe.  The Great Fire of London, so bright you could see it from the stars I wager.  And the ravens sought shelter in the Tower.  All manner of poor folk would try to kill them, but good sir Flamsteed rightly informed King Charles II that if all the ravens were killed it would be a bad omen.  The Kingdom will not outlast the death of the last raven.  The country would fall!  And so they must be protected.” 

_ Seems poor form to have a traitor tending to the country’s last remaining hope,  _ Alex thinks each time Edwards reminds him of the importance of his task.  “There must be six ravens in the tower at all time,” Edwards continues.  “Do you know their names rightly?” Alex does.  He’s had little else to do but memorize the names of these birds.  

He points to them as Edwards calls out names.   Anne has a streak of blue-black that arcs over her left shoulder.  Alfred’s got a chip in his beak.  Olaf is missing an eye, from a fox attack apparently, and Catherine has a particularly robust set of feathers around her neck.  Her plumage is absurd.  Duncan...Alex cannot rightly explain.  But he just  _ looks  _ far less intelligent than his siblings.  Almost as if he’d flown into the window one too many times.  Something Alex has witnessed on at least seven occasions since meeting him.  Gilbert’s tail feathers have a slight triangular arc that’s far more expressive than the others. 

Then there’s Knox. 

Considering how much Knox is around, Alex doesn’t think he’ll ever _not_ notice him.  He has a permanent expression of amusement on his face, and he truly  _ laughs _ whenever Alex makes a mistake.  Ridiculous bird. 

Alex likes them though.  Likes how there’s a consistency to it all.  Likes how his mind is occupied throughout the day, and how his body is constantly being pushed into an exercise that keeps him in shape.  Keeps his muscles working.  It reminds him of working in Nevis.  Not his  _ fondest  _ memories, but the familiarity is grounding. 

As is the peace the hutch provides.  Edwards had been insistent that there be no violence or potential for violence in the hutch.  Smith and his goons could summon him  _ out  _ of the hutch, but they couldn’t drag him.  Couldn’t strike him near the ravens, startling them by their aggression. 

Alex finds himself dozing in the hutch more often than not.  Working himself hard through the day, eating scraps left over from after the ravens have finished feeding.  Torn strips of grizzled meat, raw and cold, tasting far better than whatever it is he’s provided in the servants’ quarters.  

Curled up next to the perches, Alex finds that he can rest his head in a tuff of hay.  Close his eyes and breathe deeply.  Sleep long and well.  Knox usually tugs at his hair if someone is coming close.  One of the others—Alfred, Alex thinks—caws loudly as well.  He’s always sitting upright and working by the time the door opens.  

Alex feels  _ stronger _ now.  Stronger than he has in a long while.  “Beefeaters they call us,” Edwards grumbles whenever he receives the ration for the birds.  “Fed beef as we should be the strongest of the King’s men.  Hah!  These birds eat better than us!  _ They’re  _ the real beefeaters, no?” Edwards asks, and Alex nods solemnly.  Keeping entirely silent about his pilfered strips that he knows he should be eating, but eats anyway.

Stealing hadn’t necessarily been the first thought that crossed his mind, but Knox ate only a certain amount of his dinner each night.  When he finished, he would fly left overs to Alex.  Peck at his fingers until he plucked the strip from Knox’s talons and nibbled at it.  

He used to do this on Nevis.  When they couldn’t afford any true meals.  He and his brother would snatch strips where they could and eat it raw.  Swallowing past the taste of blood and just relishing the feeling of full stomachs. 

Alex is already thinking about his next meal, when Alfred starts cawing.  Knox hopping about with his head tilting this way and that.  The door opens.  Smith.  “Get up, bastard.”   _ That  _ name, Alex thinks, he could well do without.  He sighs and collects his things.  Standing to follow Smith from the safety of his hutch. 

Edwards is watching him as he goes, and makes a gesture to reclaim Alex’s supplies.  “I’ll keep them here for you when you’re done.  You’re not finished today, you’ll be back to finish before you rest.  Understood?”  He nods.  Grimacing.  Depending on how long Smith kept him occupied, he may very well be working through the night to catch up.  The ravens hate it when he does that. 

He’s never as productive as he could be.  The darkness making it nearly impossible to see.  The few times he’s lit a candle, Knox has flapped his wings to set it out while Ducan makes strange hitching sounds.  He much prefers to end before the sun goes down.

Smith leads Alex to the opposite side of the Tower grounds, though.  To a building that Alex hesitates to even enter.  Down a hall he’s only been down once.  He can feel his pace slowing as he recognizes the direction.  Smith barks for him to keep up, but it’s becoming harder and harder to do so. 

Particularly when they reach the tall wooden door that Alex recognizes all too well. 

He hasn't been back inside this particular room since two men held him down and Smith lowered a flaming hot iron to his chest.  Alex’s feet drag badly now, and even when he gets to the door some part of his hind brain tells him to stop moving.  Don't proceed.  Don't walk in.  Smith jerks him inside.  Throws him across the cobblestone.

He manages to catch his footing, but only barely.  Is still out of sorts when he hears a familiar voice hissing and snapping like a tiger caged, "Touch him like that again and I'll—"

"—You'll  _ what? Baguette?" _

Lafayette punches the soldier clear in the face.  Sending him to the ground with such ferocity that it leaves Alexander stunned.  For a single breathless moment, he's half convinced that Lafayette's lost his mind.  He cannot truly understand what his friend his thinking of, only knows that just as soon as his punch landed, he'd followed up with another.  And another.  And another.  Smith is not a competent opponent, and he's nowhere near the soldier that Lafayette is.

By the time Lafayette pauses to take a breath, the fight is over.  Smith's hands are raised.  Warding him off uselessly.  Reaching down, Lafayette pulls the man in close then shoves him back against the hard wall of the Tower.  Caring  _ not one bit  _ when Smith's head collides with the rock.  "You so much as  _ think  _ about punishing him for this, punishing  _ anyone  _ for this, and not only will my next letter be to the King of France, but your name will be  _ personally  _ engraved on the sword that will run you through.  Are we understood,  _ English?" _

Never in Alex's life has he ever seen someone turn so ghostly white.  Smith nods rapidly, though.  Stumbles badly when Lafayette throws him from the room.  Lafayette is breathing hard.  He's shaking from a temper that Alex has no notion how to contain or heal.  He reaches out to his friend, awkward and uncertain.

Something is most  _ certainly  _ wrong.

But Lafayette shrugs off his touch.  Holds one finger in the air.   _ Wait.  _  With his shoulders still shaking from breathing hard, Lafayette rests his palms on the wall.  His fingers are twitching.  He wants to keep hitting something.  Wants to find a war to throw himself into.  Lafayette's always been the best at controlling his temper.  Of waiting to let it out until the correct moment.

Smith had not been the correct moment.

"Alexander..." Washington's voice comes down from the heavens.  Or at least, that's what it feels like.  It slides up and down Alex's spine, catching him off guard.  He can feel the tiny hair fibers in each ear suddenly stand upright at attention.  It's uncomfortable and startling.  Tracking the voice, Alex stares at his General. 

_ Something is wrong.  Something is wrong.  Something is wrong.  _

Mere hours earlier, Washington had stood tired but composed.  Now, there’s something almost haggard about him.  Something weary and drained.  His skin is flushed and there’s sweat spotting his brow.  His clothes are far more rumpled.  And more than that, his hands aren't bound. 

Here they all stand.  Washington, Lafayette, and him.  And they are alone. No other guards are in the room.  No one else is there to eavesdrop or spy.  To keep them from commiserating.  To stop them from planning.

Even when Lafayette had visited previously, Alexander knew full well that they were being watched.  "Where's John?"  The words are tight in his throat.  His voice sounds strange to his ears.  Breathy and whiny.  There's no sustenance to his voice.  There's no sound.  Each word, at best, accented air.

He cannot remember the last words he'd spoken, the last things he'd actually wanted to say.  He'd been good.  Kept silent despite the desire to snap and argue.  He'd kept his head down and done his job, and  _ now.   _ Now when he has the freedom to choose what he would, he cannot make the words whole.  He cannot say what he means to say.

His General understands without seeking clarification.  "He's coming," he says slowly.  There’s a strain that wasn’t there early.  A tightness around the vowels that makes Alexander’s hair stand on end. 

Lafayette still hasn't recovered.  He's still sucking air back into his gullet, trying to calm himself.  The push hadn't been worth all of that.  The response hadn't been warranted.  "Alexander…” Washington says his name with the utmost care.  “Something is about to happen... and I need you to understand before it does.” He keeps pausing.  Like the very words are draining to him.  But he pushes on regardless of.  “Because when it's over, you will be the only one there to set it right."

Alex feels like he's mouthing words into oblivion.  His vocal chords have atrophied, clearly.  Alex cannot help but feel shame.  He has so many questions, millions of them.  They crowd the inner sanctum of his mouth, and are sent out into the world as broken fragments of what they could have been.  "What's happening?" he tries to ask, but the words are symphonies of silence.

"Henry Laurens stopped paying John's ransom," Lafayette informs. He throws himself from his place at the wall.  Starts marching backward and forward.  Fine silk of his clothing starting to rumble and ruffle around his chest.  His breeches strain the stretch of each step.  He doesn't seem to care.  Just keeps marching backward and forward, cursing and growling beneath his throat. 

All of that means nothing to Alex.  He doesn't care if Lafayette marches so hard he tears his borrowed trousers.  Doesn't care if Smith comes back in with a hundred men, Alex knows Lafayette would systematically defeat each and every one of them without question.

His thoughts remain with John. Washington reaches out and presses his palm against Alex's shoulder.  The heel of his hand digs into Alex's collarbone.  His fingers cup over firmly.  He isn't done explaining yet.  "The King allowed Lafayette to write to his wife, to have her pay John's ransom as well as his.  If she agrees, then John will be safe.  If she doesn't...he'll be executed dawn the following day." Washington squeezes his shoulder.  "There's a price for the King's...benevolence."

Standing so close, Alex can smell it.  Flesh.  Flesh and smoke and—he's smelled this before.  Alex's eyes flick around the room. There's already a fire started.  He can even see the iron Smith had used the last time.  Buried deep in the coals, turning more red by the minute.  He’s got a sick feeling in his stomach.  He scans over Washington’s body.  The way his shirt is angled.  No.  No.  He doesn’t want to see this.  "I'll pay it," Alex tries with all the ferocity he can manage.  It comes out a whisper. 

"It's not yours to pay," Washington replies.  He's being gentle.  Far too gentle.   _ Something's wrong.  Something's wrong. Something's _ —"The king has decided that all traitors of the crown must be branded as such."

Alex's chest burns.  He can feel the scar digging into his nerves.  Burrowing deep into his flesh and ribs below.  It's healed over entirely now, but the skin is still puffy and raised.  Still ringed red, and will likely remain as such for a while yet.  Alex has no illusions that it will vanish from sight.  

Washington’s being so careful.  Alexander feels like his legs are going to give out beneath him.  When they’d pinned Alex down, he remembers thrashing.  Panting.  Desperate and afraid.  He'd been scared.  More scared than anything else he'd experienced in life.  Yet here Washington stands.  And more than that…  "John—"

"—I will be doing it." Washington meets his eyes.  

_ No. _

The hand on his shoulder feels as though it's pushing him deeper into the earth.  Alex feels his head jerk in spastic movement.  Uncontrollable.  His eyes flutter as he tries to rationalize what he's hearing.  He can't.  He's trying to...but he can't.  "He's going to be sent to stay with you in the serving quarters.  He'll be assisting you with...your responsibilities.  But he'll be with  _ you.   _ We've bargained for that."

Bargained.  Payments.  Deals.  Brands in the fire. What the  _ hell  _ had they been doing with the King? There's no time for explanations or deliberation.  Alex knows that, but—they couldn't be more unhelpful if they tried.  "We could escape," Alex tells Washington seriously.  If the four of them made a serious effort of it, they'd likely be shot or killed in the process.  But it would save Adrienne her money, and it would keep additional mutilations from occurring.  “I’m not afraid to die.” 

Washington almost looks sad at that.  A memory pulls up from the ethers where Alex had long since buried it.  Half forgotten words dredging up before him.  He knows what Washington is going to say before he says it.  He still can't stop Washington from saying: “Dying is easy young man, living is harder.”

“I know how  _ hard  _ it is,” Alex snaps.  His voice well and truly breaks at that.  When next he opens his mouth, nothing comes out.  He tries and he tries, but only breathy air rises forth.  

“But you’re tired,” Washington surmises. 

And,  _ God yes,  _ Alex is tired.  He’s so tired.  He’s tired of doing this every day with no pay off.  With no idea how things are going to end in the future.  Tired of waiting and waiting without knowing what he’s waiting for. 

Washington lets out a long breath of air.  One of his hands shift to touch his own chest gingerly and  _ how  _ is the man even still standing?  There’s sweat on his face, sinking into his beard.  His eyes are crinkled and cracked with pain.  But he still stands tall.  Still stands firm.  

“Do you understand what the brand is?  What he’s doing?”  Alex hasn’t bothered trying to work out the brand’s deeper meaning.  Aside from ownership and slavery, he’d not cared to hypothesize on George’s intentions.  He feels it each time he moves, why would he wish to reach deeper into the King’s mind to understand it?  “ _ Branded a traitor.   _ For defending our home.  For protecting our rights as good people.  For wishing to live in a United States of America.  For fighting for representation, a government that served its people rather than enslaving them.” 

_ Says the slaver,  _ Alex thinks harshly.  Trembling before the man he would call ‘father.’  But Washington is clearly in no mood to be haggled at the moment.  Alex isn’t even in the mood to argue with him, strange as that may seem. 

Washington’s hand gently rests against the brand burned into his skin.  Right above the shirt that hides it from sight.  “If we’re to be branded traitors for that then I accept it and all its consequences.  Even if it’s death...”  Washington moves now.  Stepping toward a stool and carefully lowering himself into it.  

It’s so gracefully done, Alex can almost forget that the man must be in terrible pain at the moment.  “If we try to escape now we’ll either be killed on sight, or we’ll make matters worse than they already are.  If we wait for it...another opportunity may arise.  One that may turn things better.”

He looks at Alex with super-human strength and endless patience.  “I’m selfish, Alex.”  Alex doesn’t think he’s ever heard Washington use his shortened name.  But his general uses it now.  Tired and weary.  “I want my sons alive...and I’ll do what I can to keep them that way.”

Lafayette makes another wounded noise, and Alex feels his resolve crumbling.  They’re not going to try to escape.  John’s on his way.  And every second that passes feels like failure.


	13. Lafayette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings at the end.

John’s escorted into the room by a group of yeomen.  Lafayette’s seen him recently, so the sight doesn’t startle him too badly, but Alex isn’t amused.  He jerks at Lafayette’s side.  Fingers twitching spasmodically.  His lips part, but no words fall out.  Instead, he takes several harsh breaths. His chest expanding and contracting. 

Once, after they’d marched through the rain all day and night, John had slopped into Lafayette’s tent.  Mud caked up and down his uniform.  Soaked hat still set firmly on his head. From what little of John’s hair Lafayette could see, he was distinctly unhappy.  Cheeks stained brown from the earth.  He coughed up water and spat out dirt.  The had stopped nearly two hours before, though the sky still threatened a second coming.  John had been responsible for getting the horses secure and keeping the rest of the men from slacking on their duties. 

He came to Lafayette’s tent when he’d finished though.  Alexander already there.  Sitting shoulder to shoulder with Tighlman and Trunbull.  All four shivering violently as they attempted to rub their skin with a too damp cloth.  Nothing they had was saved from the torrential storm.  Even their bedding had been moist, and Von Steuben's endless diatribe had been reduced to mournful complaints about how bad the water was for the shrubbery of all things. 

John had hesitated when he went to enter the tent, but a crash of thunder drove him inwards.  Brought him down to sit on the floor by Alex’s side.  Unusually awkward and uncomfortable. “I cannot remove my hat,” John had grumbled miserably.  Someone had questioned if it had shrunk perhaps, but no.  It hadn’t shrunk. 

Alex spent several long minutes staring at John’s hair and hat as if he’d never seen anything quite so bizarre in all his life.  “My dear Laurens, just what have you done to your hair?”  he’d asked.  Lafayette remembers John’s immediate protestations.  His weak defense.  His arms crossed over his chest and his bottom lip pushed out petulantly.  

Alex didn’t wait for John to speak sense.  Just shoved his face against John’s head and sniffed loudly.  “Is that  _ flour?”  _

The defense came sharp and quick.  “I’d run out of powder!” 

Laughter filled the tent.  Tighlman and Trunbull all but falling over themselves as they chortled endlessly.  “It congeals when it is wet, John, have you never made bread?”  Lafayette had asked him, tears of mirth pressing at the corners of his eyes.  Alex had still been staring at their friend like he’d never seen him before.  “And it hardens,” Lafayette continues.  “Into _mache!_  It is a glue,  _ non?  _  You have _mache_ here do you not?”  John tried tugging at his hat once more, but it didn’t move.  Just pulled his poor scalp this way and that.  

Biting his lip, Alex took John by hand and led him from the tent.  Lafayette following behind to ensure they weren’t bothered.  They hurried down to the stream, and Lafayette had kept watch as Alex de-robed John and led him into the water.  Pushing his head under and scrubbing at John’s roots until the flour let loose enough to remove the hat.  

By the time they’d managed to trudge back to the tent, both John and Alex were blue from the chill. Tighlman had set up a fire to dry their clothes and they had a set of blankets ready when they finally settled to the floor.  Jesting in good nature.  Jokes innocent and sweet. 

Alex spent hours that night running his fingers through John’s hair to remove the last bits of flour he’d foolishly applied.  Lafayette taking over when Alex had started to doze.  Brushing and brushing until John’s hair was as dark and silky smooth as a fresh-born colt.  Grumbling only that he was lucky the Baron hadn’t been around to see. 

Baron Von Steuben had always been merciless in regards to their appearance.  Always chasing after the aides and insisting that they dress and straighten themselves appropriately.  Even after a grueling slough through the rain, the Baron would demand they look the part.  They were Washington’s right hands.  _ (“If the General truly had twenty-eight right hands, who do you think would be more terrifying?  The General?  Or his tailor’s expression once he’d been tasked with adorning his excellency?”  _ Alex had asked Lafayette once after such a proclamation.  Lafayette had laughed so hard Von Steuben had taken offense). They needed to look proper. 

Lafayette hadn’t blamed John entirely for his faux pas.  Von Steuben had been merciless. Snatching and grabbing at their hair.  Pulling it all back and setting it perfect. No one on staff had the care, energy, or desire to maintain wigs. Powder easier to come by and far less maintenance than wigs.  The fear of the Baron justified his mistake.  Though his idiocy couldn’t be left un-teased.  John had sworn that night if they all survived the war he’d buy the Baron the most ostentatious wig he could find.  As payment for the most horrendous night John had ever experienced.  

Von Steuben had gone missing when the red coats attacked their contingent.  Lafayette imagined him lying dead in the ground.  It broke his heart to think of it. 

Of everyone remaining, John’s the only one who’d need a wig.  

Now, his beautiful dark hair lays absent and is replaced by hesitant and choppy stubble. Some sections longer than others, but all far too close to his scalp.  All drastically different from the way his hair had hung in charming ringlets to his shoulders. 

Lafayette’s had time to adjust to the idea.  He’d seen John before.  But Alex hadn’t been prepared.  He looks to John desperately, and John looks back.  Eyes immediately tracking Alex, feet stumbling beneath him as he’s shoved forcefully into the room.  

Washington watches the procession with a kind of sadness Lafayette can taste.  Their General is defeated.  Wearing the same expression he wore when they discovered Arnold’s treachery.  When the news came in that West Point had fallen.  When Von Steuben disappeared on a battlefield, never to be seen again. Their forces scattered and the British taking every advantage that they could.  Washington's shoulders are slumped.  His back slightly bowed.  His head tilting to the side just a little.  Rims of his eyes arcing.  Angled as low as the corners of his lips. 

John’s pale.  Very pale.  Kept too long from the sun.  Lafayette  _ knows  _ he’s lost more weight since the last time they’d seen each other.  He’s practically nothing but bones.  Muscle atrophying to they’ll be no true protection once the brand descends.  In that sense, Alex was lucky.  He still retained a decent amount of strength from his time soldiering.  John’s  _ smaller  _ than Alex now. 

It’s far too strange to contemplate. 

A door clangs open and John flinches.  His lips are moving.  Forming words that Lafayette can only barely hear.  Harsh whispers and reprimands to himself, more than anything else.  John doesn’t seem to even notice he’s doing it.  “Son,” Washington murmurs gently, and John’s attention skitters.  His breathing only increases its pace, and Lafayette can’t understand how he’s not managed to pass out like that.  

“We’ve been over this,” Kind George states almost cheerfully as he strolls in behind John.  Clapping a hand onto John’s shoulder.  It makes him flinch.  John’s dark eyes blinking owlishly at the King like he cannot believe what he’s seeing.  Lafayette doesn’t blame him.  It’s strange to him as well.  

But the King’s fingers squeeze around John’s shoulders, making his knees tremble.  His eyes actually flutter somewhat, and it takes all Lafayette has to not tear John from the man’s side.  “He’s not your son,” the King tells Washington.  Tone bright and teasing.  Chastising.  “We already know how  _ his  _ father feels about him.”  John jerks.

_ No one’s told him.   _ Lafayette grits his teeth and steps forward.  Breaking his position, knowing full well that he’s the only one who can.  He steps close and bows his head.  King George doesn’t even pretend to not know what he wants.  He shoves John toward Lafayette, and John nearly falls.  

It takes nothing to catch him.  Though John flinches badly at the feeling of his arms around his body.  He scrambles to push away, to stand on his own, but Lafayette needs these moments.  He squeezes him closer.  Just for a moment.   _ “Remember we love you.  You must remember this.”  _

John fights to free himself without acknowledging what Lafayette says, and Lafayette lets him go.  Holds onto his arm just until he’s confident John can stand on his own.  Doesn’t need the extra help.  “His  _ real  _ father,” King George continues unabated.  “Has decided he doesn’t care if he live or die any longer.” 

For a man who has spent his entire life catering to his father’s whims and wishes, Lafayette’s not entirely sure John _won’t_ die from that alone.  He wobbles again.  Eyes closing as his chest caves inwards and takes too long to refill.  His whole body is trembling, and still his lips are whispering words Lafayette cannot quite hear.  Even at this distance.  John’s hand turns and squeezes hard around Lafayette’s wrist.  It’s the only grounding touch he’s accepting at the moment, and Lafayette knows he’ll give it to him no matter what. 

“Tell me,  _ Washington,  _ how do we treat traitors with no merit in England?”  The King’s voice is steady, his amusement apparent.  John’s eyes lift.  He meets Lafayette’s.  

_“When it’s over,”_ Lafayette tells him quietly in French, so as not to interrupt the King’s taunts. _“You’ll be with Alex.  It’s been promised.  Bear this, and you’ll never go back to that room again.”_  The hand on his wrist tightens.  John’s staring up at him.  Falling mute momentarily as he stares at Lafayette. 

_“Why?”_ he asks.  His voice is hoarse.  Different from Alex’s.  Where Alex’s voice sounded dusty from lack of use, John seems to have talked himself into oblivion.  He’s still talking before Lafayette can respond.   _“What did you do?”_

_“We didn’t say no,”_ Lafayette replies.  

The King snaps his fingers.  The guards who had been escorting John drag him forward. Hoist him up onto a long table and push him down.  He doesn’t fight them.  Or if he does, his efforts are so easily managed that Lafayette doesn’t see such struggles. 

John’s shaking.  His head swivels around.  His shirt is pulled out of the way, and he realizes what’s going to happen.  He jerks badly under the guards’ hands.  Alex shoves himself forward.  He gets swatted hard in the belly, but he isn’t affected.  Instead, he just presses closer and steps to John’s side.  “I still don’t want to hear your voice, _bastard,”_ King George warns the moment Alex’s lips part to speak. 

“Please,” Lafayette requests.  The King glances at him from the corner of his eye. 

“You’ve asked for  _ so much  _ already today,” he comments. 

_ “Please,”  _ Lafayette begs.  He’ll prostrate himself here, in front of all these people, if it will sway the man even a little.  But it’s unnecessary, King George nods his assent.  Tells him they’ll discuss the details afterwards.  That’s fine by him.  He doesn’t care about afterwards.  He only wants to help in any way they can. 

They weren’t there for Alex.  It’s something Lafayette doesn’t think he’ll ever forgive himself for.  They weren’t here when Alex needed them to be there for him.  Yet they’re all here for John, one way or another.  And it breaks Lafayette’s heart just a little.  There’s nothing he can do about it now.  No way he can prove to Alex he’s just as important as John is. 

Alex leans close to John’s head.  He whispers against John’s ear.  Words that no one but they can hear.  Words, Lafayette doubts, are even in English.  There’s a strange cadence to them.  But Lafayette doesn’t know what else they could be.  French maybe.  Latin perhaps.  German’s an unlikely possibility.  Lafayette cannot remember any other languages that they both share. 

King George barks an order.  Washington pushes from the table he’d been leaning against.  He walks slow and dignified, to the fire.  His hand wraps around the iron brand.  Lafayette’s seen this once today. 

Seen how the skin bubbles and melts.  Listened to the screams of a loved one.  Felt the rank and privilege slide around his own body like oil.  Thick and suffocating.  He’d rather be the man tarred and feathered in the streets.  Rather be the one punished for his actions.  Not saved by a King whom he’d befriended only recently.  By a man who always thought of him as an annoying nuisance, but who had still agreed to support the revolution.  Who had accepted him as a part of the aristocracy and encouraged his ideas. 

King Louis’ protection burned.  It burned worse than any fire or brand, and yet it replaced that very thing.  Replaced the scar from sight on his chest.  Replaced the very democratic ideals he fought for and turned them to ash.  The blood in his veins is no different from the blood in Alex’s. The blood in John’s or Washington’s.

And yet.

_ He’s nobility,  _ and so he watches. Watches as the three men he admired most are treated as little more than cattle to their captors.  Ownership applied where there should be no ownership to be granted.  

Lafayette drags himself closer.  Tugging at his cravat until it’s been pulled free from his throat.  Letting loose a noose that never dares to strangle him.  “You’ll want to bite on something,” he tells John as John’s panicked eyes look his his direction. 

“It’s not fair, I did what he wanted, I—” John’s rambling.  He’s rambling fast and long, and Lafayette presses the cloth between his teeth anyway. 

Washington steps to the table, and John sees the brand for the first time.  His whole body arches.  His head snaps from side to side.  There are tears in his eyes.  He’s shaking his head.  Neck muscles straining.  Lafayette can see the veins. 

“We love you, it won’t take long, hush...hush…” Alex is soothing words in a hurricane.  Lafayette holds John down and tries to not let the nausea in his stomach come up.  Tries not to think on how John jerked and flinched at the mere thought of being pinned.  How pervasive King George’s men and been in their methods.  “You’re going to be okay…” Alex repeats.  His voice is breaking again.  Unable to keep up with the strain.  Even despite the King’s permission.  

Lafayette carries on where Alex left off.  Keeping John as calm as he can.  Knowing it’s futile.  Knowing that it won’t matter.  There’s a tearing sense of horror and immobility that’s gripping the very atoms of Lafayette’s biology. 

He is disintegrating one cell at a time.  Washington opens his mouth to speak, but the King tells him he’s not given leave to do so.  There will be no comfort from the man forced to perform this.  “It was a choice,” Lafayette tells John.  John’s staring at the brand, chest moving so fast that he’s liable to give himself a heart attack before the iron even touches his skin.  

Cupping John’s face, Lafayette forces his dear friend to look at him.  “The choice was to let you be executed, or for this.  He’s doing it to save your life.  Do you understand?” John nods shakily.  But it doesn’t stop the terror.  It won’t stop the pain.  Washington takes a deep breath to steady himself, and then the iron descends. 

There is quiet.  For just a moment.  A yellow sky hovering outside like a harbinger of so much pain and despair.  

That’s when the screaming starts. 

Tears press at Lafayette’s eyes.  He holds John’s shoulders down.  He pleads with John to understand they’re doing it because they love him.  But even to Lafayette the words feel foul and wrong.  You don’t hurt the ones you love.  You don’t seal marks of ownership in their skin.  You don’t torture them to give them freedom.  

Lafayette feels like he’s disconnected from his body.  Like his mind and hands are entirely operating at odds with each other.  He feels as though his body has been rubbed raw.  As though someone had reached into his chest and scrubbed at his heart until it lay bloodless in their palm.  Then shove the organ back between his ribs.  Settling it there to function without purpose.  Without meaning. 

_ Why do you fight in this rebellion?  _ King Louis had asked him when he’d gone to ask for more funds. 

_ Freedom,  _ he’d replied.   _ I want to give freedom to the people.   _ King Louis had smiled.  Given him the guns he required, the ships he needed. 

And at the end of it all: it had been worthless. 

Meaningless. 

This is how their revolution ends. 

With bonds of slavery and marks of ownership.  Where brothers turn against one another and survive in tragedy alone. 

Lafayette’s fingers tighten around John.  Lifting his eyes, Lafayette blinks past the tears.  He meets King George’s eyes.  He memorizes the satisfied expression on the man’s face, and he determines he’ll never forget this moment. 

_ Just you wait,  _ Lafayette thinks viciously.  John’s screaming voice echoing like the bells of hell.   _ If I’m given the chance, you will be the first one who dies when this rebellion begins again.  _

You can’t free someone who is already free.  And marks of bondage only make the call for freedom that much louder.  F reedom  _ will  _ come to the colonies.  Lafayette knows that with every breath in his body.  And when it does?  It will come in blood.   _ Just you wait.  _

_ Just you wait.  _

_ Just you wait. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Semi-Graphic depictions of torture - John is branded with an iron while his loved ones hold him down.


	14. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings at the end.

By the time Alex drags John to the hutch, he's fairly certain he's going to pass out.  He's trying.  He's trying as hard as he can.  But his feet keep dragging stubbornly, and his head feels far too heavy.  His skin feels prickly and wrong.  Alex adjusts his hold, but it doesn't help.  John knows he's tripping Alex.  Halting his momentum.  But he can't help but cling to his friend more than he had before.  Head spinning the whole while.

Alex halts on his own, though.  Stopping and standing still.  Peering at something in front of them.  John blinks hard, lifts his head to try to make sense of the ground before them.  The hutch up ahead.  Oh.  Not quite as empty as Alex thought it'd be.  There's an old man there.  Sitting with a lantern in hand.

Expression fierce.

There's no use trying to hide.  The man looks directly toward them.  Pinched expression offering no hope for their predicament.  Alex's hands tighten around John's body.  Fingers squeeze around his wrist, at his hip.  John's teeth start chattering.  Unreasonably cold all things considered.

Against all odds, they aren't turned away.  The old man beckons them forward.  Rising to his feet and swinging the lantern to guide their path.  Commanding "Bring him here," and leaving no room for argument.  Alex adjusts his grip once more, and then pulls John with him.

The raven hutch is dimly lit.  The birds already in their nests.  John still squints when they enter.  Still shies away from the light of the old man's lantern.  Alex tucks John into a corner in the back.  It's clean.  Shockingly so.  John can't entirely bring himself to care one way or another.  He curls against the wall.  One arm wrapping about his body, the other serving as inefficient ward. 

"You know the wound is likely to fester in here?" the old man asks Alex.  John doesn't hear the response.  He hasn't heard many of Alex's responses and at some point he'll think about that.  But truth be told, he cannot bear to imagine it now.  He just hugs himself tighter.  He wants to go to sleep.  Put this horrible day behind him. "You damned child."

John tries to open his eyes.  See what's happening.  But his lids are too heavy.  His body is tingling too much to comply.  Even his tongue feels as though it's gone numb.  Sounds cut through John's consciousness.  Pushing him along until he feels as though he's floating.  Asleep but not asleep.

He feels his shirt being nudged to the side.  Feels a drop of water touch his skin.  Hand at his shoulder.  John strikes out.  He's moving before he can even rationalize what he's doing.  Feels skin break beneath the crack of his knuckles.  Ravens caw and clamor, shouting rises.  John's ears ring loudly.  His legs flop uselessly along the ground.  Trying in vain to move.

A bird appears in John's line of sight, screaming at him.  Feathers flying in all directions as it kicks and pecks at John's face.  He ducks under his arm, swatting uselessly at the creature.  He's struck for that too.  A hard blow that sets his ears ringing. 

It's too loud.  Too loud.  Too loud too loud too loud toodloudtooloud too—

Everything stops.  The screams, the yells, the birds.  The air around him falls into an aggressive silence that cuts worse than ever before.  John's eyes are squeezed shut.  His knees are pulled up to his chest.  Squeezing the skin around his brand.  It's like being burned all over again.  And yet the pain is secondary.  He can still feel that drop of water sliding down his rips and absorbing into his trouser bottoms.

"John," Alex's far too weak voice whispers to him.  He flinches.   _ God, what's wrong with him?  What the hell is— _ Alex pulls his head up.  One hand resting on either side of John's face.  He forces it up so they're meeting each other's eyes.  From behind him, the old man is watching with a serious expression.  His eyes narrowed, lips terse.  His shoulders are bunched around his ears.  The birds are all glaring at John from their perches.  "It's going to be okay," Alex breathes. 

Foul breath drifting into John's nostrils.  John doesn’t care.  He closes his eyes and he tries to keep his head from spinning.  When sleep finally comes, he's glad Alex didn't think to continue the wash.  John will work that out another time.

For now.  He's done.

***

Ravenmaster Edwards isn't supposed to let them sleep in the hutch.  From what John can tell, he could be in a great deal of trouble for it.  There are servant quarters, dungeons, no shortage of poor quality rooms that King George would be more than happy to lock them into, but Edwards lets both Alex and John stay with the ravens regardless.

"Why?" John asks.  He's useless to Edwards for days.  Alex sets to cleaning the hutch and tending to the ravens, and John sits curled against the wall sulking in agony throughout it all.  From the looks Alex keeps sending him, John knows Alex isn't mad upset at him.  More worried.  But it doesn't stop John from feeling useless.  From feeling like he's squandering everything.

Getting branded hadn't stopped Washington from doing his duty, and clearly it hadn't stopped Alex either.  But here John is—"Wallowing in self pity," Alex mutters under his breath.  His voice is quiet enough as it is, and when he's truly trying to be confrontational, it's even less audible.  John can't even feel it in him to argue.  Fight.  He's exhausted.

For a British yeoman, Edwards seems remarkably unbothered by John's intransigence, however.  He ignores Alex's quiet exhalations, and has yet to bring his talking to Smith's attention.  John half wonders what he and Alex had spoken about while John had been unconscious that first night.  Whatever it was, Alex is clearly comfortable around Edwards in a way that reminds John bizarrely of Baron Von Steuben.

Valley Forge had been a winter of freezing cold and starvation, but Von Steuben had led them through it all.  Alex following after him with a great smile and more than a little excitement.  He'd relished in playing translator for the man, particularly when it came to the very serious business of using each and every curse word or euphemism Von Steuben could conjure.  Alex never shied away from his duty.  He made eye contact with men of higher rank than him, and called them 'lily-livered-pig-cowards' without so much as missing a beat. 

And John's French was good enough to know the translation was remarkably accurate. Someone else might have gentled the commands just a touch more, but Alex played dumb whenever questioned about it.  It wasn't his job to question Von Steuben's tactics.  The man could predict the unpredictable, after all.  Alexander harbored no such foresight.  He merely repeated the visions, and followed without complaint.

Besides, he  _ clearly _ hadn't enjoyed the experience one bit.

Edwards, John notes, seems to have amassed an equal level of courtesy and loyalty from Alex.  And John had no notion as to how he managed to do it.  But he's glad.  Glad that Alex had someone he could find some level of comfort in at the very least.  Even if it is marginal.

The elderly Ravenmaster squints at John's question, though.  Frowning as he fans himself needlessly.  It's not hot outside.  If anything, it's cool.  Winter is coming far faster than anyone's ready for, particularly after the burning summer.  "Why, what?"  Edwards asks.

One of the ravens flies over to sit on Alex's arched back.  Walking up and down Alex's spine before leaning over to caw in Alex's ear.  Chittering noises produced when Alex jumps and twists out of the way.  Scowling at the bird as he rubs his abused lobe. "Why let us stay here?" John asks in turn, keeping his eyes on Alex the whole while.  

Edwards has recited his story no less than five times since John's arrived. Alex rolls his eyes each time he hears it.  Clearly it's a common tale.  But Edwards is proud of it, and they don't complain. The story, if nothing else, is distracting.  "We're traitors," John continues darkly.  Fingers hovering over the brand on his chest.  Tracing the air above it.  "We obviously don’t care if England falls.  So why keep us with your precious birds?"

"You're a very rude boy, do you know that?" Edwards asks.  John nods.  He knows.  But desperately chasing approval and affection he doubts will every truly come, leaves him with no intrinsic desire to be pleasant.  What are they going to do?  Kill him? Move him into a room by himself?  Torture him?  Do it.  "I'm too old to tend to these fellows myself," Edwards explains anyway.  Aged voice an almost sighing whine.

Alex dunks his cloth into a bucket of water and John keeps his attention on his friend's back.  His ears on Edwards' voice.  Not the steady dripping of water on stone.  Of splashing and splattering.  He lifts a hand to his throat and starts rubbing.  "Too old and too tired.  But the other yeomans have no inclination for this art.  Servants' work they call it."

"It  _ is  _ servants' work." It's why Alex is doing it.  No paid man would want this task.  It's unthinkable. 

"It is not!" John's mouth snaps closed at Edward's sudden indignation.  "You think hard work beneath you boy?  You think these tasks be nothing more than labor for labor's sake?  You are serving the crown in its most necessary form."

"So why entrust it to traitors?" John asks again.  The logic is beyond his reckoning.

Creaking and cracking, Edwards approaches John.  Bowed back and knobby knees.  Alex is watching from the corner of his eye.  The raven back on his shoulder blades.  Snapping at the tie around Alex's hair.  "The King believes in...symbolic justice."

"We rebelled against your King and therefore we clean up the shit of his kingdom?" He's expecting a strike.  But instead it earns him a smile. 

"Perhaps you'll even learn some humility while you're at it."  Or perhaps he won’t.  The thought must read on his face, though, because Edwards scowls at him.  “Do you know what we used to do to people in this Tower?  Do you know how many Queens we’ve executed here?  How many  _ real  _ traitors we’ve torn to pieces.  You did not come into the tower via the Traitor’s gate. You didn’t suffer the tortures of the rack, but if these are things you  _ miss... _ I’m certain the King would be happy to oblige.”

That’s not what John wants at all.  His fingers twitch against his chest.  He hadn’t managed well from the most basic of accommodations.  But...working side by side with Alex?  Tending to the ravens?  These seemed like improvements.  They’re outside.  They’re together.  Sooner or later, John knows he’ll get over whatever quirk is keeping him from letting Alex wrap his arms around him.  From washing him when he so obviously needs it.  

When John speaks, Edwards listens to him.  Answers back.  Even the ravens are charming in their own way.  It’s lovely to know that _Catherine’s_ been the one visiting him every day.  Lovely to know that now that there’s no glass between them, she can hop close enough to touch. 

He doesn’t want racks.  He doesn’t want his room back.  He just...wants to understand what the King is even thinking of.  “It just doesn’t feel like we’re prisoners,” John whispers quietly.  

“I told you already, you fool child,” Edwards sighs.  “You’re hardly prisoners.  You’re meant to be examples.  And when the King’s point has been made, perhaps your status will change.  But for now...take a break while you can.”

_ Take a break.  _  From where Alex is scrubbing relentlessly at something, John highly doubts that a break is in either of their future.  Perspectives keep shifting and changing.  Ideals keep morphing.  Edwards shakes his head at John, disappointed by him no doubt.  John cannot bring himself to care.  

The old man goes nest to nest, checking on the ravens individually.  He pauses at one nest, and Catherine starts cawing at him angrily.  Snapping at him with her beak.  She’s usually far more reserved than that, and John frowns as the bird starts flapping her wings aggressively.  Alex watches, expression carefully neutral.  He’s paused again, Knox on his shoulder.  Strand of hair in Knox’ beak. 

Edwards plucks two eggs from Catherine’s nest.  It seems very late in the season for things like that.  Winter’s coming, and eggs aren’t laid this time of year.  But Edwards doesn’t seem surprised.  John remembers some of his sister’s caged birds would do that sometimes.  Lay eggs in the off season.  Perhaps they just didn’t know better.  

“We don’t let them breed,” Edwards tells John firmly.  “Only by the consent of the king.”  Alfred is flying about. Pecking and unhappy, but Edwards shoos him and Catherine away.  Leaving the hutch with eggs in hand.  Both ravens following out the window. 

The birds are all very upset by the theft.  John can’t say he blames them.  He wonders how many eggs the King and Edwards have stolen from them.  His nails dig into the tender meat of his palms.  “You want to make them a nest?” John asks Alex darkly.  His closest friend frowns at him.  Newly habitual silence cutting through the room with a knife.  John wants to hear his friend’s voice.  He knows Alex won’t give it.  “A nest where that hack can’t take their eggs away?” 

Speaking may not be something Alex devotes too much time too these days, but other forms of expression remain obvious.  He  _ snorts.  _  Shoulders twitching as breath hacks from deep within him.  Knox flies off his shoulder.  Back onto his perch.  “Symbolism,” John says, “comes in many forms.”

His chest aches unlike anything he’s ever felt.  But John doesn’t care about any of that.  Idly, he’s aware that his thoughts are running from him as quick as flowing water.   Dripping directly from brain to mouth without stopping.  He fills the silence Alex provides.  Crafts a funny tale of what they should do in the future.  How they should manage the eggs. 

The King gave them access to his realm in the form of seven birds in a hutch.  If he’s so determined to be symbolic, then John wants to see what the king thinks of the realm’s bastard children.  They’re not as much fun when they’re fully grown. 

Alex listens quietly, before dropping his cloth into the water bucket.  John flinches at the sound, but his friend ignores it.  Walks to him and crouches down.  Leaning so their brows touch.  “You want to start a rebellion in the King’s own country?” he asks quietly.  Poor voice stretched so thin and fragile.  John lifts his fingers to trace the flesh on Alex’s filthy throat.   

“Yeah.  I really do.”  

After all, they’ve both been branded traitors.  It’s well and truly time that they acted like some.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: John's mental state is a mess post torture scene from last chapter, and physically it shows his immediately aftermath of such torture.


	15. King George

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings at end.

The great _General_ Washington sits at his window and doesn’t stand when George enters the room.  He’s looking out to the grounds.  None of his sons are there.  John and the bastard are both closeted away in that bacteria infested hole of prophecy and legend.  George hopes John catches an infection.  Hopes he’ll have the opportunity to see what the young Marquis will do in order to save John’s pathetic life.

A letter had arrived in the morning.  Lord North delivering it this time.  Seal still broken.  George had chafed at it.  Had reminded the man that _he_ was still King.  Not North.  That missives from France did not need to be circumvented through North’s hands prior to him receiving them.

North had sworn that only matters of a trivial nature were kept from him, and that too had chafed more than ever before.   _He_ was in command.   _He_ determined what was trivial or not.   _He_ set it all to rest.  North bowed.  First his head, then his back, and George sent him away.

Read the contents in private.

Now, he stood before Washington and smiles broadly.  “It seems our dear Marquise is far more forgiving than the average Lady.  She’s agreed to pay for John’s ransom.” Some of the tension leaves Washington’s shoulders and George grits his teeth.  The man still hasn’t looked up.  Still hasn’t turned to meet his eye.  Still stares at the gravel ground through his filthy window.  As if it will solve anything.  “Say ‘thank you,’” George demands.

Washington turns his head.  His expression is so cold it sends a shiver down George’s spine.  His nose flaring somewhat as his lips pull back into a grimacing scowl.  Eyes tight and filled with a promise George cannot quite determine.  “Thank you, your grace,” Washington parrots anyway.  

Unease shifts to exhilaration.  North may push his authority and combat against George’s will, but the colonies and their precious leaders belong to George.  They, at the very least, have fallen into line.  “Shall I tell you what’s happened in your home since you’ve left?” Those reports have come along just fine.  Trivial items that North hadn’t thought he needed censored.

Apparently.

“If it pleases your grace.”  The tone is still lethal.  The expression unwavering.  He has the look of a man who would be willing to murder George where he stands.  But won’t.  Because he knows he can’t.  He knows that Laurens and the bastard would be the first to go.  They’d be the first to feel the hangman’s noose.

Or better yet, George will see to it that they have their heads slammed to the execution block.  Necks hacked until severed.  Washington watching the whole while.  It’s fitting, George thinks. Very fitting indeed.   “Don’t take that tone with me,” he warns Washington stiffly.

“You’re a fool,” Washington tells him.  The words snap through the space between them.  They cut into George’s brain.  Surely, he’s misheard.  But no, Washington keeps talking.  “You have made an error, your grace.”

“An _error?”_ George growls out.  “An error is talking back when you know—”

“—Henry Laurens stopped paying that ransom because he believed his son was dead.  Because you sent him proof of life that was so dubious and a letter that was so vague he had no other thoughts save that his son must _surely_ have been departed from this world.  You have _branded_ the three of us traitors, but you have left yourself with little more sway or complication.  

“You must understand,” Washington continues, “that there is a limit to your ability to hold sway over us.”

“You listen so nicely,” George grits back.

But it’s not necessarily the truth.  They don’t listen nicely.   They cater to him.  They follow because they understand the consequences if they do not.  They understand that there is a world out there that contains their loved ones, and if they want to see it again—they must behave.

The spokesman for the American Colonies is unafraid.  He is furious.  He is impatient and irritated and he strides so he is within arms length of George.  The closed cell door at his back.  There are no guards here.  A trickle of unease starts filling George’s body.  No one is waiting for him.  No one watching.

When Washington leans forward, his voice is calm. “You had your way with the colonies.  You taxed them, you instituted laws that were not capable of being followed.  You burdened them to fill your coffers that are still empty to this day.  You have done nothing at all to impress upon the people that you have their best interests at heart,”

He’s being talked to like he’s a child.  George realizes it quick enough.  And yet he cannot form the words on his tongue.  Cannot summon the response.  So unusual it is that someone dares to talk back to him for this length of time, George is unprepared for such a reaction.  

Contrarily, Washington seems to be well and truly at ease with plotting forward.  Gritting his teeth and glaring at George as if he were nothing more than a recalcitrant child.  “We fought a war against you, not because we felt that you were not our King.  Not because we _wanted_ to be split from you.  We would have happily served you until the end of our dying days.  And yet you came into our homes.  You killed our friends and families.  You slaughtered whole families.  You spat on the arrangements we made in order to fuel your own avarice.”

“How dare you—”

“I was not _finished,”_ Washington spits.  George’s mouth snaps shut.  “You’ve branded us traitors.  Literally.  Figuratively.  You’ve marked us as property and stated that this is your intention.  This is where you wish to see us go.  We are your property.   _Slaves._ You’ve never seen a slave revolt have you?”

It’s a rhetorical question.  One that Washington laughs at.  A cruel sound that rings in George’s ears.  “My son has.  My _bastard._ The boy you brutalized his first night in London.  The boy who I’d give my heart and life for.  My son has seen a slave revolt.  He’s described them to me in detail.  The blood.  The chaos.  How no one is safe.  Men, women, children.  How blood rained down from the sky.  Shots going off in the night.  Screams that echo through the world.”

 _“You’re_ a slaver,” George accuses.

“Yes,” Washington replied.  “And I will carry that to my grave.  Just like _you_ will carry it to _yours._  You’ve made slaves of the colonies, all of us.  There are no masters there now, save the ones you’ve put in place.  And do you know what is the true sign of a revolt?  Of an uprising that left my boy terrified of seeing another day?  Running scared at night with his mother and brother, desperate for survival on the streets of Nevis?”

George isn’t entirely sure he wants to know.  But he’s locked in place.  His gloating and taunting derailed entirely by this tall, yet broken, man with a face covered in scraggling hair and teeth so bad George can smell the rot.  He cannot speak.  His mouth has been silenced.  Gagged by Washington’s presence alone.

“All it takes is _one_ idea too many, _one_ grievance too strong.   _One_ moment that unifies the people against a common cause.  The slaves of one house working with the slaves of another, despite hating each other and where they came from.  Despite cultures and preferences, beliefs or ideals.  If you make the people angry—truly angry, if you ignite that anger and you make it stronger than all of the many years of sour memories that existed prior, then those concerns are set to the side.”

At the window, one of the blasted ravens has flown up to perch.  It sits there, peering inside.  Tilting its head left and right.  Pecking occasionally against the glass.  George can hear voices now.  John Laurens.  The bastard’s.  They’ve become too familiar and given too much leeway if they’re allowed such idle chatter.  It will have to be dealt with.  “You won the war,” Washington reminds him, “because we were betrayed by those we trusted.  It will not happen again.”

“Again?” George questions.

“You had your opportunity to kill us,” Washington tells him firmly.  “You had it, and you chose instead to make us symbols of the Colonies.  Your perfect slaves.  Under your control.  For you to look at and celebrate how clever you are.  If you kill us now, you will make martyrs of us.  You will give the colonies something to gather around.  Something to fight for.  Something to band together and overcome.

“If you leave us alive,” he goes on, “then some day soon...you will have a rebellion of an all too different nature.  Harm us if you want.  Torture us if you need, but each time you lay a hand on us—the colonies will know.  They will know and they will use it to overcome their own fear.  You are not done with us yet.”

The word _revolt_ continues to circle around George’s head.  His heart starts hammering in his chest.  He squeezes his hands into fists.  “I should have you flogged.”

“Then your people will be reminded that they too are slaves.  Tell me, do you truly believe that John was the only man who questioned creating a slave army?  Who argued with me for hours—and damn the boy he was right.  And I should have listened to his petitions and pleas.  But when you cast us all as even, when you give us the democracy you feared by demanding our obedient, yet equal, servitude, then what will stop that slave army from joining together? From banding—black and white soldiers fighting in unison for the freedom that they feel is deserved?”

“It will never happen.” It can’t happen.  The south will never agree to it.  They’ll never release their slaves.  You don’t yield your power and step away, it’s simply not done.  George licks his lips.  Shakes his head.  It’s improbable.  Impossible.  

“You’ve enslaved your people,” Washington reminds.  “You’ve removed any masters in all but name.  Revolts don’t happen if there’s no cause.  And you’re giving them cause each day you remind them that we are nothing more than _slaves.”_

He’s wrong.  He must be wrong.  But the doubt starts circling.  The thoughts start spiraling.  There’s more that needs to be done.  There’s more that must be done before that could start.  And George trembles as the hypothetical reality sets forth.  Hundreds of thousands of new soldiers.  Ready to fight for what?  “Would you free your slaves to fight your war?  If you were still in America?”

Washington takes his time in responding.  Clearly analyzing his thoughts before answering.  “If it was the only way to gain my freedom, the only way to be free, I would.”  

He hadn’t, though.  At the end of the war.  Before the final battle where he and his aids had been captured.  He hadn’t attempted to free the slaves.  “You didn’t before,” George tells him shortly.

“I sent the order out,” Washington refutes gravely.  “I listened to that brilliant boy in the end.  I listened to him then, when I should have listened to him sooner.  And the order was sent too late.”

Feeling as though he had finally caught his stride, George pressed on.  Refusing to be cowed anymore.  “You don’t care about them,” he says.  “You don’t care about those _people._  The color of their skin made them property in your eyes, and now you claim to understand them?  You claim that they could ever trust you?   _Want_ to serve you?  Want to _save_ you?  You’re the man with the whip in their minds.  In what _universe_ would they wish to save you?”

The older man makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat.  “ _I_ will be dead before they do anything.  It’s not about me, your _majesty_ .” The title sounds foul on his lips.  “It’s about _you.”_ George’s mouth snaps shut.  “Your taxes and your plans for the colonies will leave them bankrupt and derelict.  Those very _slaves_ you scoff about will be under a force far greater than ever before, and they will be in those conditions because you have _forced_ them into it.  When the people turn and discover that they have no soldiers, when the option is languishing under your rule or to share in democratic freedom for _all_ people, then they will chose what is in _their_ best interests.  People are _selfish,_ your majesty.  They’re selfish and cruel and horrid.  They won’t be making the choice because they _care_ about their slaves, they will be doing it because _they_ do not with to _become_ slaves.  They know what slavery looks like in their minds.  And they do not wish to be a part of it.”

“And so your government will rise,” George spits out.

“I never said the American government would be perfect.  That its people would be free from flaws, that the country they create afterwards will be without struggle or conflict.  But a county built from the cooperation of two groups, the abolition of slavery for _all_ men, and the unification of all colonists sharing in a common goal...that’s more perfect than we had before.  And it’s strong enough to defeat you.”

Defeat him.

Loss of control.  

Letters deposited to the ministry without his knowledge or consent.  

George’s hands shake at his sides.  “If you continue to hurt us,” Washington says firmly.  Eyes flashing.  “If you _kill_ us— _you will lose._  You will lose everything you hold dear.” Washington’s eyes are flashing.  He’s a demon.  He’s a changeling feigning human form.  “I suggest,” Washington all but growls out.  “You stop harming _the colonies_ now.   _For your own sake.”_

The words sink against George’s skin like a prophecy.  The last shreds of truth and reality that have been carved into stone.  No, _branded,_ into his skin.  Fire and ice.  Flint hitting stone.  Oceans rise, empires fall.  And so too will _his._  

George takes a step back.  Then another. Then one more.  He opens the door to the cell and steps into the hall.  Looks back one final time, and sees the raven at the window.  It caws loudly.  Sealing fate into the fabric of time.

Symbols.  He’s made symbols out of his prisoners.  And all the world knows it.

The door closes between them with a click.

For the first time since Washington became his prisoner, King George feels terror building within him.  The words spin round and round about his head, driving him mad as he flees the Tower.   _I’m going to lose,_ he thinks wildly.  Knowing full well it’s true.  He cannot harm his prisoners, he cannot stop the coming storm. The ravens are screaming around the Tower grounds.

_I’m going to lose._

**_***End Act I***_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Washington has a very frank conversation with King George in regards to slavery. Washington and King George are both extremely racist throughout. Washington admits that he never found slavery morally reprehensible, and that ending slavery would only be something that helps /him/ reach his goals, rather than ending the practice for the slave's goals. 
> 
> The author does not condone, support, nor wish to glorify slavery. However, Washington was a slaver, and his opinions are starkly pointed out here to demonstrate his twisted mentality. It's an uncomfortable discussion that King George does not like for an entirely different reason.


	16. Martha

*****Act Two*****

The women sit in the back of the room.  Fanning themselves as they attempted to peer as their husbands and male relatives squeezed in the front side by side.  Powdered hair and wigs set firmly in place.  Henry Laurens is closest to the front.  Leaning hunched over a cane as he slouches into one of the court’s firm wooden chairs.

Martha had passed him when they’d entered.  Had been unable to keep herself from thinking how he’d seen better days.  Much better.  He’d ignored her entirely, kept his head down and his feet moving forward  by command alone.  Slumping into position while she found a place in the back.

Henry’s skin is now a waxy color.  Stomach is bulging a touch.  Flesh almost seeping off his bones.  His hair has receded so much that his wig hardly hides his baldness.  And his expression is so exhausted that Martha doubts she’s ever seen a man so maligned. A part of her wishes to feel something against the man.  Some form of anger or dissatisfaction, perhaps.  She doesn’t feel anything.

She can’t even manage scorn.

_ His son is likely dead,  _ Martha knows.  Scowling when a hot candle dripped wax onto her shoulder.  She shifts to move away from the light, but it there isn’t much room.  They’re all crowded together.  Nervous children huddling desperately as they await for guidance from their schoolmaster.

Martha’s not entirely certain anyone knows  _ who  _ they’re looking for support from.  Only that Henry is failing to do his duty.  He’s been out of sorts since the letter came.  Since the folded strands of John’s dark hair fell into his palm and he drank himself into a stupor so grand  _ Martha  _ had heard it all the way in the city.  

He’s gone a touch mad, or so says the talk around town.  Mad with grief and loss.  Martha recalls hearing the news when Henry lost his wife all those years ago.  There had been many children who hadn’t survived infancy.  Then young Jemmy’s death in Europe.  John, she knew, had been his pride and joy.  He’d petitioned her husband to keep John out of harm’s way.  To not put him in battle.  To send him home.

If there was one thing that Martha’s husband never did, though, was cater to the whims of nervous parents who didn’t understand how to manage their own children.  John stopped being a child the moment he put on his blue coat.  And he stopped being Henry’s responsibility to command or cajole.

Henry had yelled at Martha when she’d gone to discuss matters with him.  He’d shouted at her and informed her that General Washington had killed the army.  Had led thousands of boys to their death.  Had murdered his son.  Martha bid him good day, and left his home.  Her husband had done his very best, and she did not have the temperament anymore to listen to Henry’s ramblings.

_ He lost his heir,  _ Martha consoles herself.  A lot of families have.  But it’s struck Henry the hardest.  The men are arguing now.  Shouting about one measure after the next.  The king’s new codes have been put into place, and they will be expected to follow them precisely or they will lose everything they hold dear.  His representative standing before them all, smug and uncaring to their complaints. Listing demands and measures that were more extreme than all those that had come before their damnable war started.

A young colonist thrusts a hand in the air as he shouts.  Dark hair poking out from the sides of his wig; he's wealthy no doubt.  Though how long he will manage to tend to that wealth is uncertain.  The King's new taxes will strike him hard.  "The tarrifs are impractical," he states boldly.  "And the payment schedule is unreachable. We'll never have the money or the proceeds in time for such stringent deadlines."

"All factors that you should have considered prior to starting a rebellion," the king's man replies.  Shouts from the gallery do little to curb his heralding.  He plays town crier as he reports the latest news from England, and all the while he keeps his smug expression firmly fixed upon his features.  Pristine clothes smacking in the face of their impoverished state.

Martha sighs and flicks another fleck of wax from her shoulder.  She'd been coming to these meetings for months.  Desperate for news.  But all she's heard is rumors.  All she's seen has been families bickering and taxes being raised higher and higher.  The decline of Henry Laurens' health as his heart and mind are squandered.

He loved his boy, Martha knows.  He loved his boy dearly.  "There must be some way to restructure the debt.  So it is not so pervasive!" This comes from another good sir whom Martha doesn't recognize.  He's foregone the wig and merely appeared with a lightly powdered top.  Too light.  His natural hair is obvious sleek and uncared for.  He's not quite managed to retain the appearance of importance.

"You may submit your concerns to you local legislature, who will review such concerns as time allows," the king's man replies.  It earns him another set of jeering hostilities.  Martha shakes her head and lifts her shawl.  Wraps it around her hair and quietly starts to slip away.

There will be no news tonight, and listening to the people fall to rancor does not interest her in the slightest.  It takes her a long while to squeeze through the bodies, but she does eventually manage to step outside.  Cool fall air brisk against her skin.  She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

"All right there miss?" one of the redcoats sent to keep the peace ask.  He's got an English lilt to his accent, though Martha's not familiar enough with the sound to pinpoint just where.  She turns to look at him.  He's just a boy.  Complexion still spotted and uniform slightly undone.  She smiles, eyes and heart heavy, and he flushes when he realizes she's older than he'd initially suspected.  Not a young lass, but a woman fully grown.

"I'll be all right," she tells him kindly.  It's not this child's fault that the world has shaped out the way it has.  She bears  _ him  _ no ill will.  "It's been a long day."

"It's late missus," the boy tells her awkwardly.  "Will ye be gettin' home well enough?"

"I will, thank you lad."  Then, because her husband taught her propriety, she steps closer to the boy.  Reaches up and adjusts his collar.  "This should always be buttoned as so," she instructs him, and he blushes under her tutelage.  She adjusts his strap and sets his hat proper.  "If you're going to be a soldier, best you look the part, no?"

"Not much soldiering to do anymore, missus," the boy tells her sheepishly.  "War's over."

Martha shakes her head.  Taps his chest, fingers sliding over red.  "If you're going to wear that uniform, you're still a soldier.  You will live, and die like a soldier.  So you best do it properly." He nods and thanks her, and she wishes him a good evening.

Pulling her shawl tighter, she makes her way across the street.  It's a long walk back to the inn.  Mrs. Pickeney lost her husband in the war, and she tended to the establishment with hyper-focused attention. She's determined to not let a single spoon go stray, and she treats Martha with much the same level of attention.

Respect for her husband keeping a roof over her head while her sons attempt to manage their own finances and affairs.  She's received no less than four letters in as many months, each with contents so eerily similar to the last that Martha half thinks they'd been copied all at the same time.  _  Dearest mother, we are troubled by your current predicament...we are inquiring as to the status of your affairs...that the King could confiscate your land so inappropriately...have faith, you are a Christian. _

Yes.  A good Christian woman.  A good Christian wife.  Likely a widow twice over, though there's been no confirmation of that.  Stepping into Mrs. Pickeney's inn, Martha prepares herself for another quiet night.  Reading, perhaps, or letter writing.  She's been prolific since her exile from Mount Vernon.  Not nearly as verbose as her newly minted stepson's,  _ (dear Alexander, she hopes he's doing well),  _ but still more than she's written in years.

She climbs the stairs and pushes open the door to her room, startled immediately by the presence of a young man lurking in the shadows.  "Good lord above," she gasps, closing the door swiftly behind her.  "Bless you, Benjamin Tallmadge, what on earth are you doing here?" 

Just under six feet, Ben's not a particularly tall man, but nor is he short.  Yet he manages to collapse his figure to nearly three-quarters its proper height.  Hunched over as he is.  His clothes bear no sign of his place as her husband's devoted aide.  Long has the blue been off his shoulders.

Rugged and dressed in brown, he seems as patriotic as the men in the square down below.  And just as keen to start a fight.  The fire's tempered in his eye, however.  With an expression he'd long since adopted throughout the war.  Patience.  Diligence.  Dedication.  "Madam Washington..." he starts quietly.

"None of that," Martha insists.  She motions toward a chair.  Throws the latch on the door to secure it, then strides forward to fetch some wine from the bottle she'd been gifted by the landlady not two days past.  "Drink.  Have you been here long?"  She'd only departed the inn a few scant hours ago.  But the danger he must have faced in waiting was extraordinary.  He very easily could have been found, and the British were keen to hunt down any suspected soldiers of any kind.

Put down the rebellion before it can begin anew.

He accepts the drink with a steady hand.  Sniffing quietly, but otherwise appearing in fairly good health.  His hair's dark with sweat, though, and from the look of things, he's been travelling long and hard.  "Not for long," Ben tells her quietly.  His gaze flickers toward the window.  Then back to the door.  "I've a message for you."

"And you came yourself?" They have a system.  Since he'd first escorted her from Mt. Vernon under the cover of darkness, hiding her from the British as they searched for her, they've kept a system.  Each new place he brings her, her alias is set in place.  Her protection assured.  Her status remaining a secret.  She receives notice for when she needs to leave, and then she departs without a word.

They'd come to Philadelphia in hopes of discussing business with Henry Laurens.  Only to have those hopes dashed when the broken shell of the man he once was presented himself to them.  Allies, it seems, have been increasingly had to come by.

Ben forces a smile.  But it fades soon enough.  "I've not been able to verify it," he tells her.  Reaching into his coat for a small bundle of letters.  The top one is of most interest, however.  He separates it from the rest and hands it to her.  "I don't have the time nor means to find the answer.  But..."

There's no seal.  Or at least, if there had been it'd been lost a long time ago.  The paper is folded and wrinkled.  Damaged.  Smudged.  Martha opens it regardless and scans its contents.  One hand raising to her lips. Ignoring the body, she skipped right to the signature, and there she found  _ Elizabeth Hamilton  _ written in a careful scrawl. "Oh my dear girl," Martha breathes.

She'd dared not spare a thought for the young Mrs. Hamilton through all the turmoil of the past half year.  Dared not dwell on the turmoil of Alexander's sweet Juliet as he played Romeo in London.  Star-crossed lovers, so recently married, separated by horror reigning anew. They'd just been married, Martha recalls. Less than a year ago.  Last December.

Martha had been at dinner with Washington when Alexander had come in, uncharacteristically nervous.  Shifting from foot to foot as he asked for a moment of her husband's time.  Martha fears she must have embarrassed the boy, so unused to seeing his General in a moment of domestic bliss he was.  Washington had been lounging in a bleak white shirt, his hair tied loose but unpowdered.  He granted Alexander's audience regardless. And had listened as Alexander begged a few days leave to marry the young Miss. Schuyler.

_ We're losing this war,  _ Alexander had told her husband bluntly.   _ You know that same as I, and if I have only this one chance to marry her...then I'll hold onto it with everything I am. _

Martha had never had the good pleasure of meeting the lovely Miss. Schuyler.  Only retaining an old woman's knowledge or tales spun by starstruck boys.  Rhapsodizing of the fairer sex in a way that would make any sane woman blush.  Had they lived in simpler times, Martha could have very well imagined sweet Alexander as a poet or dreamer.  He loved his pretty wife, so.

After the final battle, the British were swift to round up any prominent figures still lingering on the fringes of society.  Philip Schuyler was executed not long ago.  Killed in his own home.  His youngest daughter and a baby murdered at the door as their home was ransacked.  Set ablaze.  No news had come of Elizabeth until now.

Martha set the other letters to the side and read through the contents of Mrs. Hamilton's correspondence.  She's frightened, and alone, and she has little in way of money.  But she's somewhere safe, and she would like to speak to Martha in person if at all possible.  The clever girl left no address or place to meet, just a vague description of a settlement.

She describes a tree in particular, a lone standing birch that filled each day with ravens and crows, calling out loudly to all those around.  Martha remembers spending two weeks on that hill.  John Laurens had thrown a rock at a bird and spent the remainder of their time in camp fleeing the furious pecks of dozens of corvids.  She gave him shelter from their storm on more than one occasion.

It's the perfect place to meet, and it's not far. 

"It could be a trap," Ben warns her quietly. 

"A trap set for me? Surely the great General John Andre is too busy collecting young boys to hang, and Arnold is more concerned with setting fire to the homes of his enemies." They've spoken about this.  At length.  Ben is eternally unimpressed with her lack of care toward her person, and she is entirely unwilling to change her position.  "I'm an old woman," she tells Ben firmly.   _ "But  _ my stepson's wife is not."

Ben just barely manages to conceal is irritation.  Replying, "Hamilton is not your son," with such a degree of sass she is tempted to swat him.  Order him to behave. 

"Were you and the other aides not commonly called Washington's Family?" she asks him wryly.  He doesn't reply.  If anything, he grimaces.  Glancing back toward the window.  "When can we leave?"

"Now, ma'am," he mutters under his breath.  "We can leave now."

Martha sets the letter to the side, and she begins to pack.  She'll read the other correspondences on the road.

***

Traveling without drawing attention to herself is the hardest part of the journey.  Ben's far better at it than she is, and he's been practicing much longer.  Still, Martha goes silently and carefully.  Following old spy routes her husband showed her on maps long ago.  Slipping through the trees and being quiet about it.  They cannot risk the main roads.  While some red coats aren't familiar with who she is, she's still recognizable enough that it poses a problem in of itself.  She has no desire to join her husband in the Tower of London.  No.  If she's going to see the man once more, it will be done on her own terms. Not in chains, another loved one used against him.

The white tree is nearly three states away, but Martha makes good time.  She arrives in less than a week, body sore and joints creaking.  Her limbs feel like they are full of fluid, knees swollen and uncomfortable.  Still, Ben holds out his hand and shakes his head.  Tells her to wait as he inspects the area. 

She sits still and blows heat onto her hands.  Cupping her face as she looks through the night.  Listening for any and all sound of movement.  Well used to navigating, Ben slides in and out of the brush like a ghost.  There one moment, then gone in the next.  He returns to her almost invisibly.  Startling her badly as he rests a hand on her horse's shoulder.  "Well?" she asks him stubbornly.  "Is there an army of British men waiting to kidnap me?"

Ben's cheek twitches.  He shakes his head.  "Just a girl."

Elizabeth.  "How is she?" Martha dares to ask. 

"Difficult to say, she's curled up near the base.  Moves about very little, and nervous for certain.  But she's alive.  I watched her for some time to ensure all seemed normal." 

Unable to keep the reproach from her gaze, Martha tilted her head forward.  Lips pulling down in a frown.  "Ben."  He refuses to be cowed. 

"Chastise me if you will, but your husband shall have my head if I let you fall to harm under my care, ma'am."  He holds out his hand, and she sighs.  Accepts his assistance.  Her back tweaks as he helps her clamber off her horse.  Her dumpy frame flopping about in an unseemly manner.  When he turns his back, she swats her stomach in annoyance.  She will not be subject to her body's irritations.  It will merely have to learn to keep up.

They hitch the horses, and Martha retrieves a small satchel with provisions.  Just in case.  Then, they start to approach the tree.  It takes nearly ten minutes to make the walk to the tree.  And once there, Martha confirms Ben's tale.  There is no one save a small slip of a girl hiding by the roots.  Shivering in the cold.  Bare feet wrapped in thin strips of cloth.

"Mrs. Hamilton?" Martha calls out gently; worried she'll frighten the poor child.  True enough, the girl flinches.  Jumping to her feet so fast her heel catches the hem of her dress.  She trips and falls, rolling indelicately for a moment before gathering her wits.  Martha stays patiently still.  Ben slipping back into the shadows.  Watching and waiting.  Observing without being seen. 

Elizabeth has a pretty face.  Heart shaped and fragile.  Her cheeks, stained with tears.  Martha wonders how many weeks she'd sat here waiting.  Not knowing if Martha would ever receive her letter, would understand the note, or would even come. Her dress is torn and frayed, though her hair is obsessively neat.

She clasps a brush with both hands.  As though to ward off attackers in the night.  Handle broken off.  Jagged and sharp. "Mrs. Washington?" the child asks, and Martha nods her head.

"Martha," she introduces politely.

"E-Eliza."

_ Eliza,  _ Martha thinks.  The nickname suits her.  Dignified but sweet.  How old is she?  Twenty-five at best?  Martha opens her arms, and the girl runs forward.  Even for strangers, comfort is a universal language.  Martha's arms wrap around Eliza's too thin body.  The child's dress is all but draped on her frame, she's been starving.  Poor thing.  Little more than a waif.  Stroking Eliza's very smooth hair, Martha whispers sweet nothings into her ear.

There, there.  It's all right.  You're not alone.  You're okay now.  Hush lamb. It's going to be all right.

“Have you eaten?” Martha asks.  She leads the girl to the treeline where it's darker.  Quieter.  Ben slipping further into the shadows.  Settling Eliza down, Martha inspects her closely.  Taps the knuckles of Eliza’s right hand in order to keep her attention.  Tears still leak from her eyes, but they’re slowing.  Not nearly as fast.  Good.  Very good.

Eliza shakes her head, and Martha’s glad she’s told the truth.  She removes her satchel and presents Eliza with a fresh loaf of bread from town.  “There you go, dear, eat this.”  

“I didn’t think you were coming,” Eliza tells her, she’s stumbling through the words, shaking so hard that the bread nearly slips from her fingers.  Martha rubs her arm.  Holds her to her side and tries to warm her as best she can.  “I didn’t know if you’d get the letter, or believe me, or—”

“I’m here.  I believe you.  I’m here.”  She doesn’t know what good it will do her.  Doesn’t know if there’s anything that can truly be done about any of this, but Eliza doesn’t need to hear her concerns.  She’s already lost everything.  Her family, her husband, her livelihood.  She can be spared a few moments of uncertainty for a bit. “How have you managed to survive this long?”

In the pale moonlight, Martha can just see Eliza’s dark eyes staring up at her owlishly.  Lips parted slightly.  “I walked,” she whispers.  A secret shared between them both.  “The screaming started and I–I just walked.  I didn’t stop.  I c-could-couldn’t st-stop I—” Martha tugs the girl close.  Pets her hair.  Whispers to her some more.

It’s all right.  It’s all right.  It’s all right.

The papers had said the Schuyler family home had been burned to the ground.  Some were still alive inside.  Anyone who tried to escape as shot on sight.  The flames had licked high enough to be seen from Albany city.  “Brave girl, brave, brave, girl,” Martha tells her honestly.  

“I-I need your help.”

“I don’t have the resources I used to,” Martha tells her gently.  “I will not leave you, nor send you away, but...I am not able to provide—”

“—I’m going to London.” Eliza sits back.  She’s trembling still, but there’s a kind of fire in her that’s flickering deep behind her eyes.  Her body is chilled to the bone, but Martha imagines that fire is what’s kept her moving forward.

Kept her walking when her family died behind her.  Kept her alive as she pushed forward.  Lost and alone.  Martha shifts so she can look at her fully.  Take in the resolve of her features and the set of her shoulders.  The firm grip around the hairbrush that seems more knife-like than ever before.

There’s something dark along the pointed edge of the brush.  It could very well be paint.  It could also be something altogether quite different.  What a world they live in that a pretty young girl like Eliza Hamilton would need to resort to such methods.  What a dreary miserable place.  “Why are you going to London?” Martha asks slowly.

“I’m going to be with my husband.”  They’ll kill her as soon as she steps off that ship.  She’s not important enough to keep alive, and the King wouldn’t allow such a spy to gain information.  She’s too great a liability to keep alive.  If her family had been slaughtered, she’d be fool to think that she’d be spared.

There will be no talking her out of it.  Martha can recognize that steely expression.  Can understand that need for completion.  Eliza’s going to do this without Martha.  But...she specifically waited for Martha.  Stayed in one place, shivering in the dark until Martha could come to her. Which means...she’s thought of this.  She’s planned it.  “You’ll die if you go,” Martha says carefully.

“There’s—there’s nothing left for me here.  Even-even my sister is in London.” Ah.  The older one.  Angela?  No that’s not right.  Martha hadn’t bothered to pay too much attention to Alexander’s swooning.  She should have done better.  “She-she’s married to a British Lord.  And, and he treats her well.  She says it’s safe.  They’ve smuggled people—brought people I think...it’s possible that I could—Von Steuben, I know that he managed to escape the colonies, and Angelica says...I—I’m going to-to try to get to see Alex...and-and General Washington too, if I can.  I—I didn’t know if...if you wanted to come as well?”

Eliza doesn’t seem to know where to start or where to stop.  She’s too cold, too uncertain.  Too scared.  How long has she been here alone?  Martha rubs her arms.  Tries to warm her and keep her comfortable.  Tries to get the blood flowing through her body.  Eliza needs food and drink.  Rest.  In a real bed.  “You waited out here all this time to ask me to go to London with you?” Martha asks as Eliza’s fingers squeeze into the remainder of her bread.

“I don’t—I don’t want to go alone,” she admits.  It’s not the whole truth.  There’s something more.  Lingering in the air between them.  “And you are the only one here who...who understands.”

Understands what it feels like to watch the world end.  Understands the longing desire to do something, anything, and take it with both hands.  “You’re not going to just see your husband,” Martha says carefully.  Eliza shakes her head.  She bites her lip.  White teeth over too pale skin.  “You’re planning on something foolish,” Martha accuses.

“It...it won’t be foolish when I do it,” Eliza offers.  She sounds like her husband.  There’s a hint of reckless bravery hidden behind the terror she feels now.  But this is a girl who walked barefoot from her home, with nothing but a hairbrush and her wits.  If she’s survived this long, she’ll survive the trip to London.

Ben, Martha thinks, will likely be very unhappy with her decision.  But there's only one answer to give.  “I’ll go with you to London,” Martha tells her.  If only to keep Eliza safe.  If only because the young girl has no idea what she’s doing and she needs to learn.

Sure enough, almost as soon as the words leave her mouth, does her quiet guardian appear.  Stepping forward.  Hands raised.  Eliza jumps, scream cut off as Martha presses a hand over her mouth.  "My apologies, I didn't mean to startle you."  It's a lie.  Martha half suspected that the aides relished in startling the unsuspecting.  Sneaking up behind each other to play pranks and cause trouble.  Ben excelled at it.  The amount of times the boys cursed and scowled as he won another game was, frankly, astounding.

Still.  Mrs. Hamilton shakes badly at the sight of him, asking "Who?" the moment Martha removes her hand from Eliza's mouth.

"Dear, this is Benjamin Tallmadge.  He served as head of intelligence to my husband, and has been assuring my safety these many months.

Ben bows politely.  Kneeling to be at level with them.  "You want to go to London then?"  he asks.  His tone sharper than it's been in months.  Eliza nods nervously, but she needn't be frightened of Ben.  He just grins. "If you don't mind stopping in France first...I think I know of someone who'd be able to help you in your journey."  It's not the answer Martha had been expecting.  But his grin is only growing by the second.  "This war will never begin again so long as we are without a leader.  You're right.  We need to bring him home."

"Ben...what on earth are you talking about?"  Martha asks. 

"I've a contact in France," he replies.

_ "You've  _ a contact in France?" Long Island, yes.  New York, yes.  But  _ France?   _ How on Earth had he managed—

Pulling a piece of paper from his pocket, he hands it to her.  It's one of the letters she neglected on their journey.  "The Marquise de Lafayette...she would very much like to see her husband again.  And she is  _ very  _ interested in our war."

Adrienne.  Adrienne de Noaells.  Their dear Lafayette's pretty young wife.  "If you can cross the ocean...you'll be far safer in France than here.  And your dreams of saving your husbands...well.  I can think of no one better suited to ensuring those dreams come true."  Ben slowly moves and squeezes his fingers around Eliza's shoulder.  Eliza stares up at him with wide eyes.  Lips parted.  "She is to be in Versailles shortly.  Pleading her case to her King.  And...I know how to get you past the blockade.  In a way that will not jeopardize your sister.”

"Why Benjamin Tallmadge…you're earning every promotion you ever received," Martha tells him.  He grins.

"I'll win them ten times over if this plan succeeds."

Something much like relief crosses Eliza’s features, and Martha pulls her close.  Martha had never expected to mitigate the variables she's been obligated to mitigate for so long.  But as with all changes in life, she will gladly take on this challenge and call it her own.  “Let’s bring our husband’s home, Mrs. Hamilton,” she tells Eliza.

Eliza nods, near breathless as she agrees.  “Let’s bring them home.”   

** They depart at once. **

 


	17. Eliza

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Lauralot for giving me permission to use the wonderful Spartan Fox story her Captain America Fic, "Keep You Going Through the Show," referenced. 
> 
> Plutarch was the original writer of it, but I was inspired by Lauralot.

Versailles is unlike anything Eliza’s ever seen.  Even growing up in Albany, where the stone buildings and the innovative architecture has become quite a highlight in more recent times, still Versailles enchants.  It took nearly two months to reach the royal courts, but once they entered the grounds, Eliza couldn’t help but stare. 

The trees were neatly cut into shape, the ground was swept clean and clear.  The fashion was unlike anything that Eliza had ever seen.  She felt sorely out of place, lost almost in the constant bustle and hustle of the people.  Paris had been far more occupied, but Versailles still carried a sense of importance that Eliza knew not what to do with. 

Kindly Ben Tallmadge found them a French vessel, one captained by a man who reported directly to the Marquise.  A mere glance at Adrienne’s letter gave them room and board for the journey.  Promises of discreteness soon following.  Ben waved them off, smiling grimly as he kept an eye on the crowds.  “I must stay here and keep my network alive...growing it and expanding it so your husband has an army to come home to,” he told Martha.  “The Captain will protect you both,” he assured Eliza.  

Stepping away, he bowed one final time, before hurrying back into the city.  Leaving them to travel on their own.  Eliza feels as though they’ve been caught in the winds of a hurricane.  Rising higher and higher in the air, held aloft by invisible threads that may soon break.  Her heart trembles at the thought, and she tries not to consider the options too deeply.  Martha encourages her to wash and get some rest, but Eliza hasn’t rested in months.  Not since well before she met Martha.  Not since the fire.  And with Ben’s promises of safety hinging entirely on a piece of paper, Eliza cannot help but fret. 

When she views her image in her looking glass, Eliza sees only blemishes.  Dark circles under her eyes.  Too pale skin that seems almost yellow around the edges.  She obsessively strokes her hair.  Desperate to keep it in place and well maintained.  With no powder to keep it clean, she can only do this.  It doesn’t seem to have much of an affect on its appearance.  Her hair still shines with a thick matte that is both unattractive and unacceptable. 

Alexander told her about the Marquis de Lafayette.  Back when he was courting her and she acted as his willing knave.  Eyes and heart wide open.  Roaming the grass of the Schuyler estate as he did his best to win the love she already offered him freely.  ( _ “He likes to pretend he doesn’t understand English,  _ Alexander confided,  _ but he’s perfectly fluent.  A fearless leader of men.  He’s a tactical mind, but he’s still very young.  Younger than me, even!”) _

He had said nothing of the Marquise.  Martha too, had never met the woman.  She only knew  _ of  _ Lafayette’s wife.  Only informed of him in stories and tales.  They have a son named after the General.   _ Georges  _ Washington Lafayette.  Martha had received an etching once, a gift from Lafayette as he burst with pride over the boy.  He’s cheerily informed them all that his son was going to be a great soldier one day. 

Men.  Always thinking about their swords. 

Eliza had little else to do but imagine what kind of woman would be married to the Lancelot of the Revolutionary Set.  What kind of woman would send letters to the wife of her husband’s General offering financial security as well as words of kindness.  It is with the Marquise’ seal alone that they were able to afford the journey to France.  By baring the letter to a French captain, they were granted free room and board, on the understanding that their expenses would be credited to the Lafayette holdings once they arrived in France.

The Captain had not even questioned them for their names.  Merely bowed his head to them,  _ anything for the Lafayette family,  _ and let them on their way.  “I had not realized that the Marquis was so well loved,” Eliza admits quietly to Martha.  She believes she’s said something to that effect no less than ten times during this journey.  However she cannot help continue uttering the phrase, so unusual is their circumstance. 

British soldiers and captains had struck an uneasy alliance with the French sailors.  They did not with to fight a full war with France, and their success in the Colony only came from duplicity in the first place.  The French ships were free to travel and trade without too much scrutiny, and in return, the tension between the nations lessened day by day.  After being hunted down for months, Eliza cannot fathom the thought that they have found safety here.  In all places. 

Versailles.

Martha dithers about the room as they wait.  She doesn’t address Eliza’s exclamation.  But she needn’t have to.  She’s already done so more than any sane woman should need.  Eliza’s fingers tighten around her hairbrush.  She’s yet to put it down or feel comfortable enough to leave it in any place for too long. 

Shamefully, she even carries it with her to bed.  As if it could ward off the bad things in the night.  As if it could cleanse her soul from the sin she’s committed.   _ Soldiers are not sinful for going to war,  _ she attempts to console herself.   _ But...aren’t they?  _ Her thoughts circle round regardless. 

A brisk knock at the door alerts them to a gentleman herald.  He bows low and informs them both that the Marquise is waiting for them, and would they mind following him?  Eliza looks down at herself, flinching at the way her dress hangs on her frame.  She feels filthy and sour.  Though her clothes have been changed several times during their journey, she knows that she is not fit to appear in front of a Lady such as the Marquise.  She’s not nearly appropriate for such a thing. 

Martha does not permit her to fret.  She reaches out a hand and slides it around Eliza’s palm.  She nods her head gratefully, and leads Eliza after her.  Together they follow the Marquise’s man.  Their journey is not a far one, but the private residence that sits on the edge of town has a beautiful view of the road to the Chateau.  It is clear that the home is meant to allow its residents free travel between Versailles and their various other lodgings, business, and travel interests of the town. 

They are escorted inside, and into a delightfully decorated sitting room.  Long sleek couches with gold trim sit beautifully in the center of the room, and several chairs are arranged for guests.  A young woman, a  _ very  _ young woman, sits in one of the chairs sipping tea from a fragile cup.  Porcelain so thin, Eliza can almost see through it.  

The woman is beautiful.  There is no other word to describe her.  She is slender and sleek.  Her hair is perfectly arranged in plaits and folds.  Padded and powdered appropriately.  Her dress is more costly than anything Eliza has ever own, and her cheeks have been carefully dabbed with a light powder that adds even more to the almost ethereal quality of her figure. 

With languid movements, the young girl places her cup down on the table.  She stands, like a swan, and her lips pull back into a polite smile.  “My name is Adrienne, Marquise de Lafayette.  It is a pleasure to finally meet you both, though I wish our circumstances had been different.”  Her English is flawless.  Precise and clinical.  He accent is strong, but she shows no hesitation in speaking each word. 

Approaching with careful steps, she leans toward Martha first, kissing her cheeks.  Then  does the same for Eliza.  She doesn’t pause or flinch or care to notice that Eliza is underdressed and unprepared.  She smiles at them both, a kind of hidden meaning in each expression.  She holds out her hand and encourages them to sit on the sofa that has been arranged. 

They sit. 

Martha’s knees crack as she lowers herself down, and Adrienne pours them each a serving of tea.  “I imagine there is much to discuss, though I would like to inquire first as to your health.  I trust your journey was well?” Adrienne asks. 

“Very well your grace,” Eliza stumbles to reply. 

“Lady,” Adrienne corrects immediately.  Eliza’s cheeks flush dark, heating her more than any fire ever could.  “I’m just a ‘lady,’ but I’d prefer Adrienne.  If we’re going to be overthrowing a King together I should like to be on a first name basis with my co-conspirators.” 

For a brief moment, Eliza’s certain she’s gone mad.  Or she’s imagined this whole exchange.  At her side, Martha is oddly quiet.  Her face is inquisitive.  Interested.  Though she says nothing, Eliza can practically  _ feel  _ her thinking.  Feel her put decisions together and decide whether or not those decisions are best for her.  Adrienne shows no fear nor concern with speaking as she has.  In fact, for all intents and purposes, she is the picture of calm placidity.  

Eliza had thought that Martha managed to retain her emotions spectacularly well, but there’s something unnatural of a girl Adrienne’s age perfecting such flawless posture.  Adrienne is younger than she is.  And yet she’s a mother twice over.  She’s the leader and caretaker of a large estate.  She has spoken with and been entertained by the King of France.  More than likely, she’s travelled to London and spoken with the King of England on more than one occasion prior to this catastrophe.  

She’s lived a life that Eliza cannot imagine, and it has left her hard as marble.  Chiseled into perfection.  “You’ve...spoken with your King about this?” Martha eventually asks.  

“No,” Adrienne replies.  “King Louis has made it clear that my husband will not, under any circumstances, be harmed by the King of England.  Should George harm him in any way, conflict will arise.  But until such a time as that occurs, King Louis would prefer to not engage in conflict with a foreign power so directly.  While he offered his assistance during your war, he is not prepared to wage another war so close to our own borders.  For now, he will not assist.” 

The news isn’t anything Eliza hadn’t already considered.  She knew the French King would not be involved in open conflict.  “However,” Adrienne continues, lifting one finger up in the air.  “He as arranged for my passage to London as a member of his Ambassador’s entourage to  _ ensure  _ that such conditions are being met.  And should I write to him and tell him that we are truly in need of his involvement...he will consider such action as necessary.” 

_ He’ll help,  _ Eliza translates quietly.   _ But only once his help is required.  _

Adrienne reaches for a folded set of documents by her side.  Eliza hadn’t seen it when they entered, but now they are settled into Adrienne’s lap.  She unties the twine that holds them together, and then hands them bundle to Martha.  “These are letters that my husband has been permitted to send me.” 

Martha peers down at the documents and presses her lips tight.  She cannot speak French.  Eliza had been responsible for translating certain words and commands during their journey, and they had spent several days training Martha in the language.  But a few weeks at best is no basis for translating the written word.  

With Adrienne’s permission, Eliza lifts the top most page and reads it quietly out loud.  Carefully managing to slide through the words and enunciate phrases as best she can.  Though it takes some time, Adrienne doesn’t seem bothered.  She waits for them to read.  Waits for them to take in each description of Lafayette’s captivity, all mild and pleasant.  A good humor lifted throughout. 

Most tellingly, however, are the distinct lack of mentions toward the General, Alexander, or John Laurens.  Not even John’s death is hinted at amongst the pages.  Eliza stumbles only once, when she realizes that she’s reading aloud the private thoughts of a man confessing his infidelity to his wife.  She flushes once more.  Goes to beg forgiveness, but Adrienne is unbothered. 

“Please go on,” Adrienne insists.  “I am not concerned.” 

So Eliza does.  She looks up at Adrienne frequently, but she does not see any sign of annoyance or anger on Adrienne’s features. By the time Eliza reaches the final document, her voice is hoarse and her head aches from the constant mental calculations she needs to do in order to translate effectively.  This letter is far longer than all the rest.  It goes on for several pages, backward and forward.  Wrapped in thick parchment and waxed with the King’s seal.

There is only one moment of note.  “John Laurens is  _ alive?”  _ Eliza asks.  Sputtering.  She reads through the document again and again, pulling in all data that she can.  Lafayette is asking Adrienne to pay John’s ransom as well.  But she must respond as soon as possible or he will be executed for his father’s failings. 

At her side, Martha’s fingers have turned white.  They are clenching hard around the folds of her dress and her anger know no bounds.  She glares at the hastily scrawled words.  The pacing is frantic.  Insistent and determined. “You’ve received no notice since?” she asks Adrienne. 

“No,” Adrienne replied.  “I have not.  It is why I am very much looking forward to traveling to London, I must admit.” Sitting up straighter, Adrienne calmly folds her hands in her lap.  “Do you know what I consider most interesting part of all of this?” 

Eliza couldn’t even begin to know.  She shrugs her shoulders helplessly.  At a loss.  “My husband has never once apologized for finding love with another.  And yet he bothered to spend the time to write to me about it in laborious detail.” Adrienne rolls her eyes.  “I am living in a world where a single letter is all I have of him, and he wastes his time not on his health and well being, but no how deliriously depressed he’s become since engaging in intercourse with a woman.”

She seems remarkably unbothered by the idea.  In fact, when Martha seeks to clarify, “You...suspected he was unfaithful?” 

The Marquise replies with a lofty, “We’ve  _ spoken  _ about it.  He’s told me clearly, and I’ve given him permission.  He’s a soldier in a war an ocean away, I am not naive.”  She...certainly isn’t.  “The letter is meaningless.  It’s a dangle and a meandering farce, and the only part of it that is remarkably interesting aside from the fact he’d written it in the first place, is that one line at the bottom of page two.  Eliza, if you would one more time?” 

Scrambling to find the place in question, Eliza turns the page.  Squints at the French, and then carefully translates.  “I am too sensible a man to be oblivious to the fact that I may have engaged in many errors, of which the King has encouraged me to reveal onto you.”  She looks up to Adrienne to confirm, and sees Adrienne nodding slowly.  Irritably. 

“The King has encouraged him to write to me about an affair...and then shortly thereafter arranges so he must grovel for John Laurens’ life.  A life I would have paid for regardless of.” 

“What do you know of John?” Martha asks.  Eliza jumps.  She hadn’t realized that Martha had been so quiet, but now when she spoke it feels like the room’s tipped on it’s axis.  Sliding down a slippery slope toward a destination unknown. 

“He is my husband’s dear friend.  A piece of his heart that he would not wish to lose.”  Adrienne’s expression turns strangely fond.  She smooths out the rolls of her skirt.  “As to his present health, I’ve received word not too long ago that he was in poor shape.  He’s underweight and has been recently whipped.  Something...I fear both he and Alexander have experienced and will continue to experience.”  

Eliza’s heart clenches.  She bites her lip and needs to look away.  Struggle to stay calm so that she does not reveal the horrible feelings that rise up within her.  Her husband held down and whipped.  The image threatens to burn itself into her mind like the fire that won’t stop.  “There’s...also report that he, Alexander, and the General have...been branded.” 

Martha leans forward sharply.  So sharply Eliza fears she’ll tip herself off the couch.  Her hand presses against the low table that separates them.  Her face is salt-white.   _ “Branded?”  _ she breathes out.

“As slaves,” Adrienne affirms.  “‘As they do in the colonies’ I believe was the precise phrase.” 

There is something close to fury lurking deep behind Martha’s eyes.  She clenches her fists in her lap and she’s more upset than Eliza’s ever seen her.  “My understanding, in being told all of this, is that the King wishes to play a game.  And I personally, have no interest in playing this game.  In catering to his  _ whims _ .”

“Where did you hear such knowledge if not from these letters?” Martha presses. 

“Colonel Laurens’ wife.  She lived in London prior to the war, and when it concluded...she’s been working for me as spy.  In exchange for the protection of her daughter.  Frances Laurens has been staying with me since the war ended.” 

A  _ spy.   _ Someone working inside the King’s home, able to have access to them all.  Eliza bites her lip.  Thoughts already swirling about as she tries to consider the possibilities.  Their greatest dilemma during their trip to France had been not knowing  _ how  _ to contact their loved ones.  Not knowing how to speak to them or engage in conversation.  Gain access to them all. 

That John’s wife had already come to the same conclusion as them...was quite remarkable.  Adrienne grins when she sees the realization on Eliza’s face.  “I do not recall who created the saying, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” Adrienne continues.  “But I rather feel as though it’s quite apt.”

She’s right.  More than right.  Eliza can feel it all stirring deep within her.  “My goal,” Adrienne continues, “is to travel to London and review the situation for myself, and if at that time I discover that my family and yours are not being treated as proper prisoners of war, as I suspect, then I intend to bring justice to them.  And I further intend to receive justice for the thousands of livres that that man has squandered in the name of keeping our families safe.  If that quest ends in the death of the British King, I will shed no tears for him” 

Then, as if she hadn’t just announced she had considered assassinating a monarch, Adrienne smiles, and invites them to wash for dinner.  They will be well taken care of in her home. 

Eliza watches as she stands.  She doesn’t think she’s ever seen anyone more impressive in all her life.  And she’s been traveling with Martha Washington for two months. 

*** 

That night, Eliza bathes in warm water.  She dresses in a clean cotton nightgown.  Adrienne tells her she’ll have a hairdresser come in the morning to set Eliza and Martha’s hair if they so desire.  New clothing will be prepared right away.  

Eliza sits on the bed she’s been offered and she looks out toward the window.  Even now, after crossing an ocean, it seems as though Alexander is still so far away.  As though he’s never going to be within grasp again.  When she closes her eyes she can imagine him there before her.  His dark hair, his gentle arcs and curves of his cheeks, nose, and chin.  She can feel his hands on her body.  Can feel his laugh against the base of her neck.  

_ It’s a good dream,  _ Eliza sighs.  But it is still just a dream.  She plucks her hair brush from the stand, set down only while she was changing, and sits down on the bed.  Determined to brush her hair until she’s satisfied.  Even if it takes all night.  

Just as she starts, a knock sounds on the door.  Eliza goes to it, snatching a robe from the back of a chair first.  She wraps it around her body, before quietly opening the great wooden frame.  

Adrienne.  Hair in a night cap to keep the powder and curls secure, Adrienne’s face has been cleared of its rouge and her body looks strangely small in the dark gleam of the night.  “Your—My—Adrienne,” Eliza corrects awkwardly.  

“I apologize if I’ve interrupted you,” the Marquise tells her sincerely.  “I...wondered if I might speak with you?” 

Stepping back, Eliza beckons her into the room.  Adrienne walks inside, looking about as if she’s never seen these four walls a day in her life.  She strides, eventually, toward the small fireplace that’s already been lit.  One of her servants had attended to it, and Eliza had kept her back to it all night.  Not interested in seeing how the flames licked up against the grating.  Imagining faces in the fire. 

Adrienne settles in one of the chairs, pulls her feet up so her knees press against her chest.  It’s the actions of a child, and the empowering image of the Marquise flutters away.  Eliza approaches slowly.  Sits across from her.  “You seemed troubled when I spoke to you about my intentions with the King,” Adrienne starts. 

She may be sitting like a youth, but her mind is still just as sharp and as efficient as it had been hours earlier.  Eliza wonders if she’s ever made a mistake.  If she’s ever seen the world as anything other than it was.  She cannot recall being nearly so serious when  _ she  _ had been Adrienne’s age. 

“I just wanted to save my husband,” Eliza replies.  The fire burns through one of the logs, and it thumps down.  Making her flinch.  She hugs the robe around her more firmly.  Bites her lip as she tries to keep herself comfortable.  “However that happens.  Killing the king…is more than I’d ever imagined.”

Adrienne nods her head.  Her tongue peaks out and licks her chapped lips.  “Martha...Martha told me about what happened to your family.”  

The fire crackles particularly loud and Eliza squeezes her eyes shut as she can feel the heat against her skin.  She can hear the echoing screams of loved ones long past.  “What happened afterward,” Adrienne continues on.  It hadn’t been a secret.  Eliza hadn’t asked for Martha to consider such things a secret.  But it hurts that Martha told Adrienne.  And she feels a flicker of pain deep within her as the smell of burning pine turns to the smell of burning flesh. 

Her fingers tighten around her brush. She pulls a strand of hair over her shoulder and starts sliding the bristles through it.  Soothing herself even as she looks to the fire pit. Warmth travels across the floor and up her body.  She can feel her skin tingling as heat digs into her bones.  So long had the cold clung to her that her blood pumps sluggishly.  Painfully.  Little needles prickle up and down her legs.  Her finger tips turn numb and tingle in equal measure. 

She imagines she can see faces in the fire.  Echoes of screams build in her ears.  They will not let her go.  She closes her eyes and she breathes firmly through her nose.  Adrienne shifts so she sits between Eliza and the fire.  She takes the brush from Eliza’s hand.  Nearly forcing it from Eliza’s fingers when her grip refuses to yield.  But slowly, Eliza manages to release.  Give Adrienne the brush.  

Her hand falls into her lap, and Adrienne carefully takes up the laborious task of brushing Eliza’s hair.  Slowly.  Gently.  Calmly.  It takes everything Eliza has not to cry then and there.  “I am curious...how long were you intending to wait for her?”  Adrienne asks her, and Eliza shrugs her shoulders.  She doesn’t mean to evade the question.  Simply...she doesn’t recall the passing of time to that extent. 

After the fire, and the soldier in the woods, blood seemed to coat everything.  Trees seemed to arch overhead.  Branches coating the sky and keeping it entirely from view.  Darkness settled around her mind.  A thick miasma that cut out all notion of time.  Hours and days melted into one.  

She remembers moments.  Singular experiences that do not form a complete narrative.  Once, she tripped and fell.  Once, she knelt at a river bank and tried to wash the blood off her hands.  When she looks down at her palms, she can still see red.  Even though she knows it must not be there.  Even though she knows it’s all gone. 

She begged help from a neighbor who gave her fresh clothes and a place in the barn.   _ (“No one can know you’re here, be quiet and hide!” The door closed, and Eliza sat quietly in the dark.  She didn’t sleep.)  _ Angelica managed to make contact with her at the neighbor’s home.  The letter torn and crumpled.  Wet from the sea.   _ Come to London,  _ it read.   _ You’ll be safe here.  _

It felt like a betrayal.  It felt like pain and agony.  Claws digging into her chest and tearing her raw.  Faces twist with agony and pain and children scream, fires burn hot through the night.  And Angelica writes of safety in the seat of the capital.  Eliza doesn’t want safety.  She wants vengeance. 

She wants her husband.  She wants the letters he wrote her not so long ago.  The ones that have surely turned to ash.  Dust blowing in the wind, lovely phrases rendered meaningless and indiscernible.  She used to read and re-read each letter.  Trace the ink with her nails, smile as she considered the possibilities those letters provided.  He talked of a future they could have.  Not a wealthy one.  Not a dream.  Not one that was filled with riches and great delights. 

Sensibility.  Practicality.  They could be poor and slovenly.  They could be indentured or brittle.  Incapable of living off of Eliza’s family’s support.  Would she still have him, he had asked her, if they lived not in riches but in squalor?  And she had said ‘yes.’

Yes, because a life with Alexander had been worth all the pain and hardship she could imagine.  As long as they were together, Eliza had believed they could endure all.  “I want my husband back,” she whispers.  Her eyes sting, and she knows it’s not the answer to Adrienne’s question.  Knows she must sound mad.  

But she was promised forever, and forever was not supposed to end at four months.  Forever ended being chased through the woods, fleeing for help, and falling into the hands of a man who wanted her dead. 

“I know,” Adrienne tells her.  “I know precisely how you feel.”  She would.  She and Martha both have a unique understanding to it all, and Eliza’s gratitude to them both knows no bounds.  Adrienne continues to brush Eliza’s hair.  “Did you ever hear the story of the Spartan and the fox?”  Eliza shakes her head. Long hair pulling in Adrienne’s grasp.  

_ He’d  _ pulled her hair.  Snatched her round the ends and pulled her down.  She fell, skirt tearing in the underbrush. 

Adrienne lowers the brush to the ends, and slowly works her way up.  “There was once a boy in Sparta,” the younger woman begins, voice pitching slightly.  A mother telling tales to their young child.  

_ He’d  _ like telling stories to.  When he dragged her through the woods, back to the house.  And she’d screamed and scrambled, and tried to break free.  Adrienne says, “He saw in the home of another Spartan, a beautiful fox.  Good dark fur and bright eyes.  The boy wanted this fox more than any other.  Coveting it and dreaming of keeping it for himself.”  

The brush slides smoothly.  No knots left to tangle.  It had taken her hours to get the knots out after—after.  “Stealing is a crime in Sparta.  A great crime.  One punishable by death.  But even so...one night the boy slipped into the garden of his neighbor.  He charmed the fox to lead it closer, then snatched it.  Taking it for himself.” 

Adrienne sets the brush to the side.  Takes two fingers and taps them under Eliza’s chin.  She urges Eliza to look upward.  To meet her eyes.  His eyes had been grey.  “Immediately the guardsmen went out looking for the thief.  They asked everyone - did you steal the fox?  Did you?  And each child, and man, and woman they asked said ‘no.’” 

Licking her lips, Eliza hugs her arms around her body.  Trembling as Adrienne’s tale goes on.  “When they come to the boy, he knows he will be killed for stealing the fox.  But he’s a brave boy, and he will not submit.  He doesn’t want to be called coward.”  

_ He’d  _ been little more than a teenager.  His coat had been red, his hat black.  He yelled at her to behave.  Slapped the brush from her hand, snapped it in half.  Eliza fels a coil of tension wrapping around her.  Anxiety coming naturally as she imagines the child.

Small and dark haired, standing before men that tower above him.  “He hides the fox in his shirt, and the guards ask him ‘Did you steal the fox?’ and he says ‘no!’ Now the fox, unruly thing, isn’t happy with being in the boy’s shirt.  Isn’t happy it can’t break free.  It starts biting the boy.  Gnawing at his skin.  But the boy doesn’t say a word.

“‘Did you steal the fox’ he’s asked again, and the fox bites into his muscles.  But still he replies ‘no!’” Eliza took hold of the brush just as he went to pull her up a second time.  “Deep into the gut the fox ate and chewed.” She stabbed the man.  The boy.  The soldier in the red coat.  She hadn’t meant to.  But suddenly her hand had moved and he gasped.  Eyes wide.  Sharp wooden handle curving up into his heart.  “Chewed through the organs and into the chest cavity.  ‘Did you steal the fox’ they ask one more time, but the boy still says ‘No.’”

Adrienne pauses in her tale.   _ He  _ stared at Eliza.  No words came out.  “The guards left, and still the boy made no sound.  It was only after, when he’d been left alone, did he look to see what he’d done.  When he lifted his shirt to inspect the fox, the blood began to fall.  He only died when he let the fox out.” 

Adrienne’s hands gently wrap around Eliza’s.  “It’s not the fox’s fault the boy died.  It’s the boy’s.  For trying to take something that wasn’t his to take.”  She leans forward to place two kisses on at Eliza’s cheeks. 

Eliza had run from the body and her home, run from the screams and the pain and all the places she felt she’d be safe.  She had run for hours.  Days.  She had waited for weeks.  Harboring only one notion—she wanted normalcy again.  “The King has a fox in his heart.”

“It’s time for him to let it out,” Eliza whispers.  She squeezes Adrienne’s hands.  She’s already dug through the gore of a man’s chest cavity.  If she has to, she’ll do it again.

Adrienne just smiles, and holds her tight. 


	18. Adrienne

King Louis appoints Pierre d'Avignon as his official ambassador in England.  A qualified statesman and a dear patron to the nobility, his appointment is more than a little tongue in cheek.  Adrienne restricts herself from rolling her eyes as Pierre announces his station.  Even more so when he presents himself to her as a Marquis. 

“You deserve it,” she tells Pierre honestly.  He does.  He’s managed the affairs of the Lafayette estate since before Gilbert’s parents died.  And he’s run and managed his own lands and people ever since.  His own personal income has lifted the value of the area around his territory, and his presence in court made him an excellent candidate for such a ranking.  She is neither shocked nor terribly bothered by the concept. 

It’s still strange to see the symbol of his house on his clothing.  Strange to see him speak to her as a ranked equal, rather than a polite guardian or one who merely cared for her well being.  She smiles to him anyway, and wishes that Gilbert could have been there to see the ceremony.  He would have relished in it.  Cheered and celebrated with such fervor that she’d likely have needed to escort him home. 

There are final preparations that need to be made.  Final questions that need to be asked and concerns that need to be addressed.  Martha and Eliza are with the hairdresser now.  They will be tended to and made appropriate for their new roles in their journey, and Adrienne will address all of those concerns shortly. 

For now, though, she sits at breakfast with Pierre and the children.  Frances, poor girl, remains quiet.  She’s been quiet and withdrawn since she arrived, and nothing seems to get her out of her shell.  Georges remains oblivious to their young guest’s woes.  Happily smashing his bread and smearing butter about his fingers and cheeks.  Anastasie couldn’t seem to decide if she found her brother entirely repulsive or worth the effort to educate.  She tried, once or twice, to get him to stop smashing his bread, but it was a fight even Adrienne had given up trying to win.  

Let the boy smash his bread.  If he gets hungry enough, he’ll eat it.  _  “You remember you’ll be travelling to your grandparents tonight?” _ Adrienne asks her daughter in French.  Although  _ she’s  _ proud of her English, Anastasie still has much to learn.  Frances curls toward her food and pokes at it with her cutlery.  Little lamb needs to eat more. 

Anastasie nods slowly in response.  Still staring at Georges with thinly veiled contempt.   _ “You’re not coming with us? _ ” she asks, carefully raising her breakfast to her mouth and chewing slowly.  

_ “No,”  _ Pierre replies.   _ “Your mother and I’ve matters to attend in London.  When we’re finished, though, your father should be coming home with us.”  _ She repeats that last bit in English, and the Laurens girl tries to smile.  It fails. 

_ “Papa!”  _ Georges shouts with delight, slamming his fist against the loaf so that it splatters.  Crumbs flying in all directions.  Frances jumps, eyes wide. 

Anastasie’s face turns red, but she doesn’t say anything.  Just keeps glaring at him.  Sighing, Adrienne pulls the bread from Georges’ hand.  Wags her finger, saying, “ _ That’s enough, darling,”  _ as he pouts. Pierre tilts his elbow so it knocks against Anastasie’s, smiling at her until some of her tension fades. 

_ “Why can’t I go to London too?”  _ Anastasie asks when Adrienne has finished her scolding.  There’s butter smearing dangerously close to Georges’ eye, and Adrienne scowls at it.  She lifts her napkin to her lips and licks a corner of it before scrubbing at Georges’ face.  He whines beneath her ministrations, squirming in his seat and trying to bat her hands off. 

But she holds the back of his head firm and doesn’t stop rubbing until his face is somewhat presentable.   _ “It’s not safe,”  _ Adrienne explains. 

She knows her daughter’s sharp enough to realize the inherent threat.  She can see Anastasie rolling her response about her mouth like a sour grape. Releasing Georges, Adrienne turns to face her daughter fully.  She’s turning into quite the proper young lady.  Practicing very basic English with her teachers, 'playing' piano with her mother.  Pierre even, gallantly, began teaching Anastasie how to dance the other day.  

The little girl’s wanted to show her father her talents for months now.  Has been asking when Gilbert was coming home since before the change of the seasons.  Things such as imprisonment and treason hardly meaning a thing to her.  To Anastasie, her father was the noble sir who bought her a pony and told her adventure stories.  The greatest man Adrienne could conjure from memories that she herself held close to her heart.  No lying or embellishment necessary.  Anastasie wanted her father back with the same fervent desire as an orphan begging for relief.  Even the promise that Adrienne would Gilbert home with her left Anastasie with far too much time waiting.  She wanted her father  _ now.   _

Adrienne understands the feeling far too well. 

Georges reaches for the bowl of jam, and Pierre bats his hand away.  Giving him a small cut of fruit in exchange.   _ “I’ll be careful,” _ Anastasie offers as a bargain.  It’s a sweet offer, one Adrienne wishes she could take her up on. 

_ “The one request your father makes of me is to keep you and your brother safe from harm.  If I brought you to London he would be most cross with me.  To the extent that I fear he’d never forgive me.”  _  She won’t risk it.  Won’t allow it.  Not while it’s in her power to keep their family safe.  Something not even Martha or Eliza could do. 

Georges reaches out for the jam again, and Adrienne shifts the bowl just out of his reach.  Then she takes her daughter’s hand from across the table.  Strokes her finger along the knuckles.   _ “I’ll take care of your mother,”  _ Pierre promises.  But it does little to assuage the concern that’s so obvious on Anastasie’s young face.  Not even five and she’s already looking so much like a lady. 

To her right, Adrienne spies her son clamboring up into his seat, knees slipping under him as he crawls go get leverage.  He’s a quick little minx, and before Adrienne can stop him, he’s leaned across the table and snatched the jam knife. Flicking its contents at his sister’s face without so much as a breath of hesitation. 

All traces of maturity vanish from her daughter’s visage.  Anastasie shrieks with anger, fingers curling around her water glass and hurtling it at Georges in response.  The boy is immediately soaked, as is Adrienne.  She jumps to her feet, sounding wordless noises of outrage as Pierre snatches Adrienne and hoists her out of her chair to set her on her feet by the table. 

Frances is watching the affair with wide eyes, looking between them all in amazement as Georges reaches for something else to throw. Adrienne snatches his wrist in her firm grip and shouts  _ “Enough!” _ He stares at her, lips trembling in shock.  Adrienne doesn’t make a habit of shouting at her children, but she’s exhausted by their antics.  It’s not even past eight yet. 

Behind her, Pierre is already scolding,  _ “Anastasie,  _ you  _ know better!” _

Her daughter is not impressed.  She points at George obscenely, face flushed as she trembles in open rage.  _ “So should he!”  _

_ “He’s a baby!”  _

_ “I’m not  _ that  _ much older!”  _

_ “Babies don’t receive dancing lesson!”  _ It’s, perhaps, a cruel thing to say.  Anastasie bursts into tears and flees the room, nearly colliding with Martha Washington in the process.  

Martha jumps back to avoid being trampled by the little girl, and watches as she tears through the home.  Likely to her room where she’ll cry herself to sleep into her pillows, smearing jam the whole hile.  Standing at the breakfast table, wet son in her arms, Adrienne cannot help but feel a little embarrassed. 

“Your pardon, Lady Washington, my children have decided to throw a rebellion of their own today,” Adrienne excuses.  One of the serving staff approaches awkwardly, and Adrienne all but thrusts Georges into their arms.   _ “Please see him dried off, and that Ana has not created a mess.”  _ The maid nods and quickly scurries from the room, taking Georges with her. 

“I had several children all within the same range,” Martha reveals kindly.  “I remember such mornings.  Where despite having relatively low standards for the start of a day everything goes wrong regardless.”

Adrienne smiles.  She can see why Gilbert liked the woman.  Why he’d asked her to check in with Martha after his arrest.  She greatly looks forward to finally seeing the General too when all is said and done.  She would like nothing more than to meet the man Gilbert insisted they name their son after. 

“And this must be dear John’s daughter?” Martha asks.  

Frances shifts awkwardly.  From what Martha Laurens had told Adrienne, her daughter had never met her father.  Being introduced as such must be confusing for the poor girl.  Still, she recognizes the name at least.  “My daddy’s a soldier,” she parrots.  Martha smiles at her.  

“And a very brave one at that.  I had the pleasure of knowing him while he served.  You look just like him.”  Her cheeks flush a little and she looks terribly embarrassed by the compliment, but she mumbles a thank you anyway.  

It’s clear she wants to flee the eyes upon her, and so Adrienne tells her she’s welcome to play in the parlor should she wish to.  She does.  Running from the room far faster than is appropriate.  It’s not Adrienne’s place to judge.  Frances is going through a difficult enough time as it is.  “You’ve done so much for everyone,” Martha sighs, looking to Adrienne gratefully.  “Truly your generosity must come with its limits?” 

“My father,” Adrienne agrees, “did not entirely approve of my decisions.”  But things change.  When Martha Laurens had appeared on her doorstep, desperate and begging for help.  When the news arrived that their husbands had been arrested and would be brought to London for trial.  When the first letters came in conjunction with Martha’s reports.  Her father was many things, but first and foremost: he was loyal.  “We will not allow this farce to continue unimpeded.  It will run its course, whatever that may be.” 

She offers Martha a seat at the table, and Martha sits slowly.  Settling into her chair as they wait for Eliza to join them.  Martha looks much refreshed from the night before.  Her weary eyes have grown sharp, and her posture seems far more relaxed and in position.  Prepared for the day that they had ahead.

When Eliza does step into the room, a part of Adrienne relishes in the thought that she seems at peace.  Last night’s discussion had ended with them sitting side by side for some time.  Discussing their husbands and their futures, dreaming of what life will be like someday soon.  Absent is the hairbrush that Martha had said seemed like a crutch to the young woman. 

Her hands seem lost without it.  Squeezing the folds of her pretty dress uncertainly.  However, Eliza’s chin is tilted upright and she sits with them all.  Finalizing the quartet that they’ve created.  After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Pierre begins to explain the plan they’ve been designing thus far. 

It took several weeks to gain the accommodations Pierre requested for their journey, but now everything has fallen into place nicely.  “Twenty-seven staff members will fill our home,” Pierre explains to the Americans.  “All of them loyal to the French monarchy, not to George.  There will only be one servant from the British in the household, but our guest will not be a bother to any of us.  We’re already familiar with who she is, and we’ve been in constant contact with her the whole while.”  

They had been strict on that.  When the station had first been discussed, Adrienne had made her point firmly to Louis.  She could not be expected to travel to England and determine if her husband was in good health if she were to be spied on the whole while.  Strangely, it was Marie Antoinette who had spoken on her behalf.  _ “No woman wants to be stared at all day,”  _ she’d said.  Louis had agreed, and made the arrangements. It took longer than Adrienne would have liked, but the end result was more than satisfactory.

Martha Laurens could serve easily as a crossover servant.  Setting King George's mind at ease, while still giving her a purpose to attend to Adrienne's whims.  Spying on both sides of their arrangement without anyone knowing the wiser.   _Good,_ Adrienne thinks.   _Let them not notice us._

“What this means is that it will be quite easy for us to travel to London without being inspected too closely,” Adrienne says simply.  “Particularly the serving staff.” She lets that linger a little. 

Eliza, sweet girl that she is, frowns only slightly.  But Martha’s lips quirk upward.  Her brow raises as she considers the option Adrienne has provided.  They will find no better offer, no better alternative that provides both secrecy and security.  “We’ll be a part of your retinue,” Martha concludes.

“My personal attendants,” Adrienne agrees.  She has had clothes made for them and materials gathered.  “Where I go, you will go.  You will be...educating me in English,” at this she smiles fondly to Pierre.  Her English is perfectly accessible, he had seen to that.  

Many long hours of study, of him steadfastly refusing to cater to her tantrums when she didn’t get her way in learning.  He spent months speaking nothing but English to her, not letting her get away with speaking a single word in French if she wished something from him.  So mad had she been during the process, she’d willfully avoided him some days.  Running about the grounds of her home in hopes of never seeing him again. 

But Pierre remains one of the most patient men she’d ever known.  He did not relent.  He kept after her, day in and day out.  And she rather thinks she speaks it as well as her husband now.  If not better.  She hasn’t seen Gilbert in so long, perhaps they are finally equal in such matters. 

“In the minds of the English, I will simply be an additional member of Pierre’s entourage, hardly worth noting save for my relation to Gilbert.  The King will be compelled to allow me access to my husband.  Who, I hope, will join us in our home soon after.  That, will account for  _ one  _ of our four hostages.” 

The other three became more tricky.  Alex, from all reports, had been utilized as a working servant.  A slave, in truth, as he work in bondage and held no rights nor contract.  A simple order or command could, possibly, give him leave to approach them.  Though that would depend on circumstance. 

John, Adrienne also would have rights to see.  She paid his ransom and therefore was well within her realm of interest to demand to see him and review his well being on her own.  Should the rumors be true, and John’s truly dead, the consequences were too many to enumerate.  

But the most complex of all remained Washington.  “According to my reports, Washington is being he’s kept in the Tower proper, not a working prisoner or anything to that effect.”

For a moment, Martha seems like she wants to say more.  But she refrains.  Keeping her mouth closed and attention only on the immediate matter at hand.  “If my Washington is in one of the Tower of London cells...it may be difficult to visit him or see his conditions. We will have no inherent access to him.” 

Adrienne nods at the assertation.  It’s very smart thinking.  It’s also the greatest hurdle they will need to overcome.  “I would have you both serve me as my personal attendants in regards to  _ all  _ matters.  Wherever I go, you too will go.  Whomever I visit, you too will visit.  This will help familiarize the guards with your presence and soon enough—ignorant to your purpose.”

“When do we leave?” Eliza asks.  

“Tonight, we’ll be in London tomorrow,” Pierre replies, clearing his throat.  “The children will be leaving to the countryside to stay with the Marquise’s parents, and I have an audience with King George tomorrow afternoon.” 

Eliza’s grin turns feral.  She meets Adrienne’s eyes.   _ Time to let the fox out,  _ Eliza had said the night before.  Adrienne couldn’t agree more. 

She was tired of waiting. 

***

The distance between Versailles and London was not as extreme as one would think.  Between carriage and boat, they managed the journey in good time.  Eliza and Martha wore the matching uniforms of Adrienne’s ladies, and Pierre looked dashing in his dark blue coat.  A true Marquis. 

He smiled at her fondly when she called him such things, and he kisses her hand before he leaves her to attend to his new mattes.  “How long have you known the Marquis d'Avignon?” Eliza asks at her side. 

“Since I’ve known my husband.”  Adrienne half believes that she’s only found such happiness with Gilbert  _ because  _ of Pierre.  The man offered endless patience and guidance to her husband in their youth, and there was so much that could have gone wrong had Gilbert not had such a helpful companion.  “After his parents passed, Pierre served as his educator and attendant.  He has been with Gilbert all his life, while also creating quite the estate in his own name.  Gilbert gave him more lands and funds, assisting him with his pursuits.  His new status as a Marquis is a great honor.  One he, no doubt, deserves.” 

Anyone who had to raise Gilbert deserved the honor of nobility to go along with their name.  It took a village to raise a child, and Pierre served as village and home for far too long.  

The lodging that the King of England bequeathed unto them was a tall building of good quality.  Curiously decorated but with no obvious signs of skulduggery.  It was exactly as it appeared, and Adrienne claimed a room of decent quality for her own.  She sits at the armoire and readied herself for court with Eliza and Martha sitting not far away.  Watching her process so they could replicate or mirror it as needed. 

Eliza's outfit needed tending to, and Adrienne explains the alterations as needed.  Eliza's skirt must be longer.  Her shoes more elevated.  She needs to stand tall, and rise above all around her.  It would unbalance the poor girl, but that's fine.  They have time to practice. 

When they finish their efforts, Adrienne takes them each hand in hand and led them after her.  Pierre summons a carriage, and together they ride to King George’s court.   Eliza talks lightly with Martha the whole while.  Martha engages in discourse with Pierre.  They get along well, and Adrienne is gratified to know that.  Particularly as their duties from this moment forward depended on the facade that they will be able to engage with.  When the carriage stops, Pierre exits first, then Eliza.  She holds out a hand for Adrienne to take, and she does so smoothly. 

Some of the various lords and ladies of England recognize her immediately.  They freeze in place, like children caught in the act.  Eyes wide and faces pale.  Straightening her spine, Adrienne refuses to be cowed.  She strides forward, and pauses as Martha leaves the carriage too.  With a brief nod to Pierre, they proceed.

To her left, Eliza’s eyes start to wander some.  Drifting over the palace and the halls.  She’s never been to London, and she must find it all so fascinating.  Adrienne allows her her interests, but squeezes her hand as they approach the door to King George’s hall.  “Marquise Lafayette,” someone greets out awkwardly.  Adrienne looks at the man.  Presses her lips together and squints her eyes. 

He crumples.  

Snivelling and apologetic.  Men, Adrienne’s discovered, are keenly aware when they’ve made an error.  One needn’t say a word.  They incriminate themselves.  Without a single man or woman speaking on the offences she’s come to observe, Adrienne’s already preparing herself for the inevitable revelation. 

Her husband, Adrienne is certain, is not all right.

The doors open to the hall and they are encouraged to enter.  Lords and Ladies, Ministers too, all stand on either side of their party.  Pierre leads them forward, and Adrienne untangles herself from Martha and Eliza.  They fall back in perfect unison.  Heads bowed in reverence even as they look for what Adrienne’s already starting to see. 

Her husband.

Gilbert is standing not far away.  Hair powdered and padded, skin cleanly washed, clothing pristine.  His dark eyes are fixated on Pierre at first, a thirsty man at a well.  But once he’s drunk his fill, he allows his gaze to travel.  She cannot stop her lips from twitching upwards.  He looks absurd in British dress.  She fully intends to tell him as much some point soon. 

Posture slipping from its sharp military lines, Gilbert’s arms go slack.  His fingers twitch.  He seems to long to reach for her, only to refrain at the last moment.  His mouth, familiar and lovely, is open.  He speaks no words, but Adrienne imagines what his breath feels like on her neck.  Imagine’s his voice in her ear.  His touch on her body. 

Physically, she accepts at long last, her husband _is_ well. Well enough that though he looks to her and only her, she feels confident in tilting her head slightly over her shoulder.  He finally looks to see who else is with her, and his expression falters for a third time.  Microscopic twitches about his lips, as if he cannot determine how he should appear in the slightest. Gilbert recognizes both women immediately, even had he not met Eliza before, he’d have gathered who she was.  Adrienne can see his mind whirling like carriage wheels in hopes of trying to find a resolution to his conundrum. 

“You must be the French Ambassador,” King George determines with all the intellect of a dung beetle.  Something must reflect on her face, because Gilbert bites the inside of his cheek.  They’re old hats at this.  Forced into attending court for reasons they cared not to entertain.  Needing to play statue as their ‘betters’ discussed business they couldn’t care less about. 

This quiet exchange, a glance here, a wink there, feels so natural and calming that Adrienne almost crosses the room now in hopes of holding her husband.  In breathing him in and taking him to her breast.  Whisper to each other in their own language, let the world fall away into nothingness. 

Pierre states his case.  Explains that he’s here to inspect Gilbert’s wellbeing and secure a more prosperous alliance between England and France.  The King seems bored of his position already, scowling when Pierre makes simple demands, tapping his fingers on his arm rests like he has somewhere else to be. 

He’s a child desperate to relieve himself, sitting in a room full of people watching him go.  Adrienne has been surrounded by court all her life, and of everyone she’s ever met, George is the most impatient.  “And who is this?” George asks, talking over Pierre.  Gilbert’s cheek twitches.  His tongue pokes out, then slips away just as fast.

Adrienne steps around her dear friend and curtseys low and proper.  “Adrienne de Noailles, Marquise de Lafayette,” she introduces.  They’ve met before.  Well before the war.  At a winter’s ball.  He doesn’t remember her.  But suddenly his attention has been captured.  His expression is frozen in place.  He looks at her like she might terrorize him somehow.  She wonders if he knows how guilty he appears. 

“Marquise...de Lafayette,” George murmurs.  Glancing at Gilbert.  Fingers tight around the arms of his chair.  

“Yes, your grace.  Marquis d'Avignon has been good enough to allow me to accompany him to London.  I have come to pay the most current ransom payment for my husband and John Laurens.  And to inquire as to their state of health.” 

The King’s expression is mercurial.  Changing by the second.  Skin twisting about as if it didn’t know which emotion to represent.   _ “Their _ health?” he asks. 

“I am paying for John’s health and happiness, am I not?” she replies.  She dare not look at her husband proper, but she can  _ feel  _ his amusement.  Feel a revitalized surge of energy from across the room.  The King nods.  He hadn't expected her to come in person. 

Good. 

She hopes he continues to squirm on his throne.  Uncomfortable and uncertain as she tears away everything he loves. She hopes he is miserable each day she is here.  “I will arrange for such a meeting,” he slowly concedes. 

“Today is quite the good day for it,” she replies.  “I would be happy to make use of the home you provided for us during their visit.”  His face turns purple at her presumption, but Adrienne’s not finished.  She curtseys once more and thanks him from the bottom of her heart for his generosity and good Christian soul.  “And I thank also your good advisors,” she continues.  “Who have assisted your reign with such ardent devotion and good spirits in tact.”  The room explodes into cheers and applause as the men feel as though a compliment has been paid to them. 

George glares at her.  Trapped.  Unable to turn back the clock or silence her words.  “Marquis,” he snaps.  Gilbert addresses him with a polite ‘Yes, your majesty?’ “Go collect Laurens.  Bring him to Downing Street.” He goes without complaint. 

Pawn to d4. The game’s begun.


	19. Mary

Marquise Lafayette welcomes Martha Laurens into her home with a close embrace and two kisses on her cheeks.  “Now, we’re in for a bit of confusion,” Adrienne tells her brightly.  “As we already have a Martha already.”  The Other Martha is Lady Washington, and when if there is one thing that will not be done—it’s calling  _ her  _ anything other than her name. 

“My name’s ‘Mary’ now,” she replies.  “It has been for almost a year.”  Adrienne looks almost sad at her proclamation, but it doesn’t stop her from taking Mary by her hand and leading her into her parlour.  

Lady Washington is nothing like Mary imagined.  A plump woman with a serious face and plain clothes, she greets Mary like they’ve known each other for ages.  Standing and embracing her.  Warm and tight.  Lady Hamilton mimicking the action as well. 

“Please, call me Eliza,” the younger woman requests.  Mary nods slowly.  And so they’ve gathered.  It feels strange.  The four of them all in one place.  Wives of high traitors of the crown, plotting treason all on their own.  

“Your meeting at court today was...eventful,” Mary comments idly.  Adrienne smiles.  

“And it will be again.” Gesturing for her to sit, Adrienne encourages her to try the tea and biscuits set out for her use.  She eats slowly.  Trying to find her place in it all.  At any moment, the Marquis and her husband will march through that door.  And to be frank, she’s entirely uncertain as to how that meeting will go. 

Particularly when Angelica Schuyler deigns to appear at Adrienne’s doorstep.  If Mary found Lady Washington— _ Martha,  _ she scolds herself — to be impressive, Angelica has been a sight to behold for years.  The faithful daughter of Philip Schuyler who married a British Lord prior to the war truly starting.  One who balanced both her allegiance to the colonies, and her duty to her her husband. 

She’s charmed the British court, danced with the King, and Mary’s heard Angelica be called the  _ one  _ good thing about the colonies.  She’s flawless in body and speech, and even as she hurries into Adrienne’s home, it is clear that she is faultless in familial loyalty too.  Her arms find her sister.  Her voice cracks as she holds Eliza close to her heart, and the girls sob against each other in stark relief. 

King George had wasted no time in mocking Angelica for the fire that killed her family.  Had brought it up more than once, as if testing her responses.  She never failed to be polite.  Subservient.  Graceful.  Bowing her head and demuring.  Calling her family traitors, while still preserving her sense of self.  

Mary's seen her after such moments.  Standing back.  Watching the dances and the parties.  Watching the King as he laughs too loud and draws attention to himself.  She’s good at playing pretend.  But pretend is all it is. 

“Are you all right, dear?” Martha asks her.  Mary licks her lips.  Shrugging awkwardly as she looks from person to person.  Adrienne’s retinue has assembled and posted guard in all the right places.  The French Ambassador is quietly watching the proceedings, and that alone is disconcerting.  

For so long her involvement in this scenario had been in the background.  Passing messages and making observations.  Now there are  _ so many  _ hands in this undertaking.  So many people with personal involvement who are all individually attempting to reach some form of catharsis.  “I’m in no great hurry to be hanged, my Lady,” Mary tells her calmly.  

“Strange, isn’t it?” Martha asks.  “How soldiering is a young man’s game, and yet when it comes down to it...the youth have so much more to live for than the old.  I rather feel as though I’ve lived my life, and the consequences of this don’t seem too extraordinary all things considered.  But you have a life yet.  One you wish to lead.” 

It’s true.  But Mary cannot help but feel as though that truth is an uncomfortable one.  John had relished in being a soldier.  Had been overjoyed at the opportunity to race through the battlefields, killing his enemies and striving to reach his cause.  Mary felt no desire to fling herself headlong into battle.  Nor to get herself killed in the process.  Something her husband never seemed to mind much. 

Then again, her husband never had the good sense to keep his own head on his shoulders.  He’d fought against the guards in his Tower for months, and all it got him was a whipping and a brand.  A home living with animals as opposed to the bed he’d been given.  Well done, John. 

“I knew your husband during the war,” Martha reveals.  Mary suspected as much.  She had heard that Lady Washington occasionally attended to camp.  Assisting and caring for the men after the battles.  “He’s rather a reckless one, isn’t he?” 

Yes.  Extremely reckless.  It’s not that the truth is something shameful, so much as Mary’s not used to hearing the truth be told.  “Ordinarily it’s polite to speak well of soldiers,” she replies slowly.  Arguing etiquette with someone of Martha Washington’s stature seems a tad absurd.  But then again.  These  _ are  _ strange times. 

“Ordinarily,” Martha agrees.  “But he  _ is  _ reckless.” 

“He is.” Mary tilts her head toward the window.  It’s impossible to see out with the curtains drawn, but she cannot help but fidget uncomfortably.  She doesn’t need to be seen in the Marquise’s home any more than Angelica does.  “Is there a less...sunny? Room?” she asks.  

Nodding briskly, Martha clears her throat.  Draws attention to herself.  She politely inquires if they could move the party upstairs, and just like that they go.  Gathering in what appears to be a study of sorts.  Books on the shelves and an assortment of chairs arranged around the room in particular locations.  

A knock downstairs is answered by one of Adrienne’s servants, and the guests up to meet them.  Mary looks to her husband first.  His hair’s grown a little since the last time she saw him. Not by much.  But the scabs have healed and have left dark scars beneath even darker hair.  It mixes together so you’d only notice if you knew where to look and she does. 

She’d loitered in the background, watching time and again as he fought against something that  _ didn’t  _ need to be that hard.  If he’d just let them cut his hair in the first place, he wouldn’t even  _ have  _ cuts.  He wouldn’t even have bruises around his throat.  

John's posture is poor.  His fingers are rubbing against each other like he can’t keep them still.  He trails behind Lafayette almost miserably.  Lips moving wordlessly.  Dark eyes flick in all direction, and hesitate when they land on her.  He’s upset.  Mary grimaces.  She probably deserves that. 

Reunions are fickle things.  Lafayette all but bounds to the Marquise, and she draws him in joyfully.  Arms around his neck like school children.  It’s not entirely proper behavior.  Such things are meant to be done in private, and it’s excessive at best.   _Childish_ __ at worse.  Lady Washington smiles at them, though.  Fond approval clear in her demeanor.  

Angelica and Eliza are still clinging to each others arms.  Hands clasped tight between them.  Though once Lafayette manages to think past his wife, he does address the others in order of importance.  He floats between them like he’s not sure what to say.  But he kisses them all.  Chattering with a kind of nervous speech pattern she’s never noticed in him before. 

Even at court, he’d kept any uncertainty at bay.  He’d always maintained a dignified air that is entirely lost here.  He’s going person to person.  Hugging, kissing, passing compliments.  The room fills with conversation, and all the while—John’s loitering in the background.  Frozen.  As if he cannot fathom what precisely is happening. 

Mary walks toward him slowly.  Edging around the room so as not to interrupt the rest of the proceedings.  He sees her doing it.  Naturally.  And all the muscles in his shoulders and back tighten.  Gearing up for a fight she neither wants nor looks forward to.  “John…” 

“You didn’t visit,” he accuses immediately.  He doesn’t look at her.  He keeps his eyes locked at some vague point over her shoulder.  Lafayette maybe.  Mary can hear the Schuyler sisters talking to him now.  “I told you not to, but I didn’t think you would listen.  I figured you’d show up again.  And you did.  That was nice.  Dropping off flowers after—after. Laf told me—faithfulness right?” 

“Would you rather a rose?” she asks him stiffly.  At least he turns to look at her.  It’s a brief moment, but it's still a look.  He squints in her direction, then looks back to the others.  

“I’d rather a conversation, but you know, that might have been asking too much.” 

“Yes, it would have.” There was no world where John and her would have been able to have a friendly conversation with one another.  No world where she could have seen to his injuries and talk about his position.  No world where she could sit in his room and play nursemaid while he cried about not being free. 

The moment the divide breaks, the moment the gates open and the inspection starts, she too would be in the same position as him.  Stripped of what little agency she has left and held at the mercy of someone who hardly had a thought in his head.  “I cannot help you if I’m caught.”

“Dandelions are  _ help?”  _ he complains.   _ Dandelions  _ took time and money.  They took an extra trip down to her flower supplier, a portly man who never left his home and yet facilitated all manner of shipments to and fro.  He spoke with a thick demanding accent, and she knew enough French to know he cursed half the time.  But his products were good, and he seemed to always get what she needed.  The dandelions though.  She’d needed to request those special, and John’s irritation only left her feeling frustrated. 

“Next time I’ll leave you with nothing.  You certainly seem to be enjoying your time with the birds.  Maybe your father should have stopped paying the ransom sooner.”  She meant it to hurt, and it does.  He flinches.  One of his hands rise to rub at the brand on his chest.  Hidden by his filthy shirt.  He ducks his head low and he mutters under his breath.  Too quiet for her to hear.  She grits her teeth.  

Ignores his exhalations of ‘that’s not fair’ and steps in close.  So they’re in each others space.  “What’s not fair is you pretending that I’m somehow the villain here because I didn’t wipe your fevered brow.  I’m here now, aren’t I?  Just as I have always been.  Arranging  _ your  _ survival, if not your safe-keeping.  Ensuring that you’re saved even when your neck is being readied for an axe.  Don’t take your anger out on me John Laurens.  I have not one ounce of pity left for you.” 

He grimaces, and holds his tongue.  Arms curled so they squeeze tight around his body.  Martha Washington steps closer, as though she means to draw him in for a hug.  He shies away. Not keen on being touched.  Not interested in the embraces or the kisses that the others are freely exchanging. He mumbles at her.  Words low and rambling.  Sentences flowing without form or structure. 

He’s talked to himself for so long he hardly seems cognizant on how to uphold a natural conversation.  Surprisingly, Martha doesn’t seem to notice.  She simply nods her head slowly.  Look at John like he’s something sweet and precious.  Mary’s seen John trick school boys into opening barn doors onto bees nests and getting stung.  She’s seen him after he’s terrorized his sister for hours.  John’s not sweet and precious.  What he is, is a basket full of rage with a short fuse.  Looking at him like he’s a baby animal in need of nursing is akin to looking at a lit cannon and finding it charming.

“This is all well and good, and it’s not that I’m not happy to see you, because I am Lady Washington, but I wasn’t really expecting to see you and what are you doing here?  I haven’t seen the General since we arrived.  I’m sorry, I—”

“—It’s all right, John,” Martha soothes.  “It’s going to be all right.”  His lips snap shut and he trembles a little before her.  Eyes flicking around the room.  He reaches a hand up to rub at his throat.  Drawing more attention to the darkened skin. 

Because saying it makes it so.  John seems to be just as convinced as she is.  Staring helplessly.  No plan.  No sense of action.  None of the exuberance that Lafayette seems to be showing.  

_ It’s what a real marriage looks like,  _ Mary considers.  Adrienne and Lafayette leaning toward each other.  Like two ends of the same line.  Finishing their circle and closing the loop.  They complete one another.  Whereas John and her...are married in name and on paper.  But her heart doesn’t beat for him.  Her soul doesn’t reach for him.  And she knows without asking, John isn’t reaching back. 

Eliza asks John about her husband.  She does it with thinly veiled hope.  She wants a truth that John will never give her.  Eliza doesn’t want the truth that lurks behind John’s intentions.  Doesn’t  _ really  _ want to hear how John likely sleeps with his head pressed against her husband’s back.  His arms around her husband’s body.  How where John’s heart never once beat for Mary, it beat for Alexander all the same.

It beat for the beautiful Frenchman who John naturally leans to.  For his General too, though Mary doubts it’s quite the same.  John yearned for a father who accepted him for all his successes and failures.  He wanted a family that never questioned him.  That trusted him implicitly.  One that turned their backs to his quirks and placed him first and foremost always. 

He wanted to be spoiled.  Spoiled and treated like a Prince.  He wants to live life as a hedonist.  Seeking his pleasure in the bodies of those he loves.  Siphoning energy from them like a bee drawing nectar from a flower.  

John is Icarus and Deadalus in one.  He is the architect of his own failures.  He is the champion of his own despair.  He reaches ever more for the sun, craving it’s warmth and it’s possibility, even as his wings melt away and he is falling.  Falling.  Falling. 

Gone.

Eliza wants to know about her husband, but John cannot give her the answer she wants.  Mary can feel the shift in his behavior.  The curve in his attention.  The instinctive recoil from the reality faced before him.  Mary wonders if John even wanted to meet Elizabeth Hamilton.  If he even wanted to know this woman.  See her before him.  A physical reminder that there are certain things in life that cannot be changed. 

His Alexander married Eliza.  Had fought to marry his Eliza.  And Eliza had had no baby in her belly to compel him.  No sense of duty that forced his hand.  He’d chosen her, and he’d chosen well.  Look at the woman Alexander chose.  Who crossed an ocean to near her love.  

John opens his mouth.  

He closes his mouth.  

He rubs at his throat and Mary cannot help but wonder if Alexander is his sun as well as his moon.  If John is the tide and the sea.  Pulled this way and that, lost between his two great prisms.  Reaching for light and assurance on one hand, falling to decadance on the other.  John swells between them both.  The good and the ill, and John  _ wants.   _ He yearns. 

He arches and rises for a sphere he cannot truly reach.  For should he get too close, he falls.  Crashing down to the earth.  He is a ship in a bottle, lost amongst the waves.  He is tired and broken.  

And if he speaks to Eliza about her husband, he is giving her husband away.  Drawing the lines in the sand.  Accepting that Alexander Hamilton is not his to keep.  Is not his to hold on to.  Not his to claim as his own. 

The sun will set, a new moon will rise.  And John is a still sea.  With nothing more to reach for.  “He’s fine,” John tells her.  Unlike with every other person thus far, he has no run on sentence.  He has no story.  He has no rambling thoughts. 

He is quiet. It’s a pain that hurts too deeply.  Fool boy.  With his heart too big.  Loving all the wrong people for all the wrong reasons.  “Now that we’ve gathered,” Mary says.  Saving John from having to tell Eliza more.  Saving him from having to bear his soul to her in a way that had left Mary weak in her knees when she’d first heard.  Saving them both the embarrassment of knowing the other loved a man who only truly belonged to one of them.  “I think it best to discuss our plans.”

“I take it it’s more than just arranging for us to have tea?” John asks, he’s pulling away from Eliza.  Settling back on his heels.  Rocking a little.  His discomfort is still obvious, but for the first time all evening, he looks at her and he doesn’t seem upset.  If anything, there’s even a trail of gratitude hiding behind his eyes.  

“Not hardly,” Adrienne responds. The delight she had been clearly feeling since her reunion with her husband has faded.  Replaced with the steely strategist Mary first met.  The woman who listened to Mary’s woes and opened her heart and home to her.  Put in place a series events that once started—cannot stop. 

“Whatever  _ have  _ you gotten yourself into?” Lafayette asks his wife.

“Treason,” Adrienne replies.  “For you,” she looks to John in particular, “and all of your comrades.”  Lafayette could not be tried for treason as he wasn’t a British citizen or colonist.  But the rest of them could.  They could all share rooms in the Tower as Mad King George determined their fates. 

“Treason,” John repeats slowly.  Huffing, he looks to Lafayette.  Squints his eyes and tilts his head, lips pulling into a snarling smile.  A tidal wave at midnight.  A reach for the moon and the sun, that will end crashing into a cliff face.  Sharp and ragged.  He says only two words more.  In truth, they’re the only two words that matter.  Mary’s not even surprised.  She even rolls her eyes.  “Why not?”  


	20. Angelica

It’s late by the time Angelica returns home.  She slips through the front door quietly, taking care to note which servants were awake and which ones were in bed.  Her husband is in his study.  Dinner cooling by his hand.  He looks at her when she steps in.  Exhaustion lining his face.  

“How are things?” he asks her quietly.  John Barker Church had never been a particularly talented man.  Smart and bookish, he served the war by making sales and deals.  By assisting the colonists while managing a great financial empire in Britain.  No one could fault him for wanting to turn a profit, but it didn’t mean their position in the world remained tenuous after the war ended.

He played good Lord, she played loving spouse, and they both thanked God for England, King George, and the monarchy.  Lies, Angelica knew, became them.  Rendered them useless to anything save public loyalty and an attempt to behave for all the men and women that loved to gossip.  For all the soldiers, judges, and executioners who loved to make decisions on matters they could not possibly understand.

“Things are unique,” Angelica reveals.  She sits across from her husband and she pours herself a glass of wine.  Drinks it slowly as she reviews her husband’s appearance.  His shirt is rumpled and hair a mess.  He’s been working tirelessly in an attempt to secure funds and shipments.  Supplies need to be transferred over, and every shipment also carried a small degree of contraband.

Forbidden letters for those who paid a high enough fee.  Sometimes human cargo for those desperate to flee King George and his madness whether they’re traveling _from_ the colonies or _to_ them.  Angelica doesn’t think she’s ever seen men more frazzled than after they’ve finished being smuggled, but it happens all the same.  

“He’s set out the names of another twenty people to be killed today.  One was a boy, no older than ten.”  Families marked for death because of the war.  Martyrs made of them all.  “I’ve received a letter from Maryland,” he plucks the missive up from the table and hands it to her.  She scans its contents.  More farmland burned.  Earth salted.  It’s waste at this point.

Waste and stupidity.  Even Queen Charlotte has been disquieted by the King’s behavior.  Expression growing more weary as time goes on.  Nervous uncertainty only growing.  She hosts her private teas and arranges flowers she has on order, and tries very hard to keep calm.  But Angelica can see how dissatisfied she is.  She’s scared.  

Angelica doesn’t blame her.  Shaking her head, she sets the document to the side.  They’ll need to burn it later.  For now, she tells him, “His intent is to keep the people in line with fear.  If they are too frightened, they will not rise up against him.”  

Church scowls at her. “I’m fully aware of what his _intent_ is, but the execution—no pun intended—is madness.”  

The court has been filled with rumors of late.  Discussing the King’s rash behavior and poor handling of the colonies after the war.  Most members of Parliament still believed the colonies should be set free.  Structurally the debt burden was too high at this point.  The colonies acted as a deficit, and they produced little profit in the first place.  “The economics need to be restructured,” Angelica muses thoughtfully.

Alexander had written to her as much not long before the war ended.  When discussing the various methods that would need to be considered in the colonies’ own government post revolution.  He’d mused long and hard on the different possibilities.  Money, he’d decreed, determined what government could be made and substantiated.  Should the money not be funnelled into the correct avenues, then the government as a whole risks crumbling.

Angelica had considered his words interesting last year.  Now, she cannot help but try to call them forward.  Analyze them for any possibilities or insight.  The words are complex and the meanings subtle.  She understands it in the way that someone vaguely understands the teachings at church.  There’s a greater meaning to the world, but she can only stare at the abstract concept and wonder in its glory.  Theorize and extrapolate on the signs that she can fathom, while leaving the rest to faith.

“This whole country needs to be restructured.” Church refills his glass and slumps deeper into his chair.  

There’s no hiding the truth from her husband.  Not if she wants his help and assistance.  Not if she wants their children to survive as her own family hadn’t.  But no.  Best not think of Peggy and her niece.  Of her father and their home burned to the ground.  Her brothers shot and killed.  Best not think of any of that.  Because when she does finally let herself think on it...it will not go quietly into the night.  “Eliza is alive,” Angelica reveals.  Church’s head snaps up.  His eyes widen.   “She’s here under the Marquise’s protection.”

He reaches to take her hand.  “Is she well?”  Angelica could have done worse in selecting her husband.  She could have chosen someone heartless and useless.  Someone who had the station but not any of the emotional involvement.  Church had his flaws.  He had neither the brilliant wit of Alexander, nor the flirtatious smile her brother-by-law gave her when first they met.  But Church cared for her.  Cared for her family.  

He’d mourned with her when news came of the massacre in Albany.  He’d held her close and tried his best.  He’d found her all manner of clothes and trinkets to distract her.  He’d planted himself like a tree of truth and not barred one centimeter when it came to keeping the vultures away.  Court circled above waiting for the death knell, but it had not come.

He’d been there for her.  Not a perfect match for her, she knows, but perfect in all the ways that mattered.  “She killed a man in Albany.”  With her bare hands, Angelica doesn’t add.  While he was dragging her through the woods.  Tearing her dress in the thicket and bruising her flesh with his grip.  “She longs for her husband.”

“I saw him the other day,” Church reveals suddenly.  Angelica raises a brow.  He has the decency to look a bit shamefaced at his declaration.  “A trifling encounter.  We exchanged no pleasantries.”  Sighing, Angelica refills her wine glass and motions for him to continue.  To speak his story now, or else she’ll never hear the whole of it.

Church is the kind of man who enjoys setting the scenes for all of his meandering tales.  He describes the weather (good), the street (not very busy), his reason for being in the Tower (he had a brunch in the White Tower), and the location of Alex on the grounds.  It took him nearly five minutes to get around to telling her that Alexander had been fetching water in a bucket.  He looked well, and hadn’t noticed him.

They wouldn’t have recognized each other even if they had.  After such a length of time, Angelica doubts Alexander would even recognize _her,_ let alone her husband.  Church noted that he seemed in good health, though.  It’s more promising than she’d hoped.  She’d made herself sick with worry once she heard what the King had planned.  Unable to leave the bed for days as she thought of her brother-by-law in such a station.

She dare not visit him.  Already she and Church were inspected too closely for such things.  But she longed to see him.  Longed to determine for herself what his status was.  If he was faring well.

“The Lafayettes are playing a long game.  And a dangerous one at that,” she sighs into her wine.  Adrienne’s plan was logical.  Well thought out and astute.  However it depended on too many people.  The risk multiplying for each name added to her list of conspirators.  The idea that they would all work in perfect tandem is nothing short of alarming.  She hopes beyond hope that there is a sense of restitution that can be gained from all of this, but her dreams of such an event dwindle with each passing day.

“It may not have been wise to go tonight,” Church warns her.  “You know the King will have seen.”

“Let him see,” Angelica sets her wine to the side.  “I want him to see.”

Her husband only looks more unsettled by the proposition, but she waves him off.  He doesn’t need to worry about her.  Not yet anyway.  Many things were discussed tonight, and Angelica isn’t concerned.  For now. “Tell me more about the ships,” she requests.  Guiding him back to his papers and his records.  Church nods agreeably and begins to detail his providence.  A new set of seeds and plants have arrived.  They’ll be good to give to Will.  All the while, Angelica memorizes the details.  Deciding for herself whether it would be useful to know or not.

***

Court in the morning comes remarkably quickly.  Angelica hardly seems to have time to unwrap her hair and touch up the stray strands.  She pulls on a powder blue dress and has one of her servants lace her up.  Tying it all in place.  Snatching a fan from her dresser, she follows Church into their carriage and they ride up together.

He tells her about the various things that he will be involved with, she considers which ladies she’ll need to entertain.  Adrienne will be there, as will Eliza.  Angelica had hardly been able to sleep all night, too desperate to see her sister.  She’d never thought she’d see Eliza again.  Never thought she’d hold her dear sister in her arms.

But her sister is here, and she’s alive, and Angelica can only send prayers of gratitude to God.  Thanking him for one more moment.  Thanking him for a series of _one more moments_ that she hopes will last until the end of time.

She is right, of course.  Once the carriage arrives, Church hurries off to address his duties and Angelica immediately finds Adrienne.  The beautiful French woman has drawn a crowd of admirers.  They shied away from her prior, but now interest has forced their hand.  They want to know more about her, and separated from her ‘escort’ (Pierre is off serving his duties as Ambassador) they feel she has become approachable.

Martha Washington stays silent at Adrienne’s side, like a shrewd governess who is monitoring her charge’s behavior.  Eliza holds onto Adrienne’s hand.  A trusted aide who translates all the ladies’ comments so Adrienne can understand.  Adrienne’s expression is one of bemused excitement.  Polite and kind, cheerful and addicting.  She draws the women to her like she is drawing bees to flower.  Encouraging them to suckle on her stems for nectar.  Creating a farce that they don’t even know they’re helping her build.

Angelica catches her sister’s eye, and she’s filled with such longing.  She desires nothing more than to approach her directly, but such things cannot be.  They are irrevocably meant to be parted.  While Angelica could interact with Adrienne without drawing attention to herself, doing so with her _servant_ would draw questions and concerns.  Still.  Eliza’s sweet face turns to her.  Her lips part and she exhales sad and slow.  Then she redirects her attention to Adrienne and continues her duty.

The each have a role to play, and this is theirs.  Adrienne smiles and charms, she invites the ladies to the lodging she’s been given.  Discusses a ball to put on.  An excited energy starts to fill the crowd.  There hasn’t been much cause to celebrate of late.  Regardless of which side of the war the people supported, there had been a great deal of pain and disgruntlement that came from the conflict.  All disagreements aside, there seemed something particularly off about sentencing young children to death for the actions of their parents.  

Yet the reports continued to come in.

Families taken from their homes and killed.  Women left without house and home, men and boys marched to barracks for review.  There was pain rising up in the colonies, and the miasma continued to pervade every level of their country.  A deep dearth of misery swelling more and more with each passing day.

“Our nations have too long been in conflict,” Eliza translates for Adrienne’s fast paced French.  Adrienne speaks in mixes and twirls of broken English that are offset by heavily accented sentences and too-quick French that leave much of the women starry eyed.  Eliza’s pushing the limits of her ability to translate, but she’s holding steady for now.  Squeezing Adrienne’s hand to slow her down if she starts to struggle.  “We should at least do our part to assist healing these qualms.”

Fall is ending.   Soon the Christmas season will begin, and Adrienne paints a pretty picture.  A Winter’s Ball.  A chance to set aside their despair and hope for a rebirth of glad tidings.  The expense of such a thing will be astronomical, but Adrienne doesn’t appear to care or notice.  She recruits houses who will promise to pressure their husbands into such a fete.  She teases the children with fanciful dreams of dancing with the Prince.

She tells tales of balls from her childhood, where she met her husband.  The dashing Musketeer in a blue coat who bowed deep and flirted like a King in his own right.  Mentioning her husband so candidly takes some of the Ladies aback, but they are swept into the narrative.  

It’s hard, Angelica thinks, as she listens to stories of a young Lafayette charming the woman he’d marry.  It’s hard to not have an _emotion_ toward someone that you see as a person.  Strip the social order away.  Strip the nobility and the rank and the titles.  Strip the clothing and the station.  Strip the employment and the shackles.  See a fellow man as a fellow man, and listen to their story.  It’s hard to sit in silence, watching suffering occur, when you find yourself _caring._

The Marquis de Lafayette walks past their party, seemingly oblivious to their discussion, and the ladies simper.  Adrienne calls to him, and he goes to her.  Kisses her cheeks and complementing her.  Flirting and tempestuous.  An image of a perfect union.  A gentleman far more noble and delightful than all the others.  An inspiration.  

Angelica doesn’t doubt that Lafayette and Adrienne love each other, not for one moment.  But as he bows to her, kissing her hand low and proper, she _does_ doubt that their public performance is _entirely_ spontaneous.  Lafayette’s held a reputation of being unapproachable for far too long.  Nervous nobles uncertain of how to react to him.  Not sure if speaking with him will ignite the King’s wrath.  They avoided him on purpose.  A traitor’s a traitor, no matter how fine he dresses.

And now the wives look.

They stare.

They _feel._

“I’m afraid I must borrow Lady Church, _mon amore,”_ Lafayette sighs as he steps from his wife’s direct side.  “The King has requested her presence and I am to fetch her.”  Adrienne meets her eyes, smiling slow and fond.

“You will take care not to let him be lost?” she asks in slow English, looking at Eliza as though to confirm she’d said it right.  

“I’ll do my best, my Lady,” Angelica replies.  She curtseys and accepts Lafayette’s offered arm.  Both of them ignoring how Adrienne immediately comments on how gallant her husband appears.  

Lafayette has a fixed smile set firmly on his face.  He looks straight ahead.  Steps with great care not to disturb the edge of her dress.  But his arm is stiff, and his posture lacks the true gentleness that comes with ease.  “You were seen last night,” he warns her quietly.  Voice so soft.  Instinctively, their arms tighten around each other.

“It’d have been foolish to assume I wouldn’t have been.”

Their pace slows.  “He’s going to play with you.”  Angelica cuts her eyes toward him.  He still hasn’t looked at her directly.  And from how tense his jaw has come, she finds his refusal all the more alarming.  Lies, Angelica thinks, has become who they are.  And the lies they tell each other remain the most important ones to consider.

“Are you all right?”  she asks him.  Smiling and playing nice in a crowd remains a part of their culture.  She’s no idea what he and Adrienne spoke about in the privacy of their own company.  She imagines there hadn’t been much smiling then.  There hadn’t been between her and Eliza.

“Don’t make any promises you cannot keep,” Lafayette tells her stiffly.

It’s unneeded advice.  “I’ve spoken to the King before.”

Feet slowing to a halt, Lafayette pulls her around.  Finally meeting her eyes.  “Don’t play his game.”

“Playing his game is how you _win_ his game.”  

“I would rather see Alexander hanged than watch the King break you, do you understand?” He keeps his voice low and urgent.  His arm is still tightly coiled around hers like a vice.  Locking her into position.  She cannot break free, nor does she desire to.  She leans closer.  Sharing the same breath.

“All four of you will hang if we don’t play the game the King sets out before us.  But your wife acts as Queen, Eliza and Martha as her rooks, defending their Kings with all that they are.  And I serve my own part too.  Not nearly as hidden or as crafty as dear Mary, capable of jumping spaces and hiding in the distance, lying in wait.   I am far too open for any of that.  I’m a Lady in his court.  He will either ignore me or execute me, but I cannot control the whims of a mad King. And fearing it will only make it worse.”  Lafayette swallows thickly.  His throat moving visibly.  

He starts walking again, leading her the final few paces to the King’s private office.  An escort to an executioner.  She wonders if Anne Bolyen felt this way at one point in her life.  “Don’t let the King capture our pretty bishop then,” he murmurs.  He places a chaste kiss to her hair, then detangles his arm from hers.  Knocks briskly, and waits to be invited in.

It takes a while.

They stand there.  Silence creeping up like a wraith.  Coiling about them and dragging them down to the pits of hell.  They stare at the hard wood door.  Waiting.  Angelica feels the temptation to allow her imagination to fly.  To allow her to think on the various ways this could go wrong.  The ways it could go well.  

Anxiety mounts within her, and she shifts her weight from foot to foot.  She looks at Lafayette.  Wants to ask if they should knock again, but is startled to find that he merely looks resigned.  His posture flags a little more, exhaustion she’d not seen before finally shining through.  He stares at the door as if they are expected to wait for hours.  And as the minutes trickle by, she cannot help but imagine they will do just that.

Outside there are birds chattering amongst themselves.  Members of court and workers shuffle about.  Every so often a door opens and closes.  Bells toll in the distance.  Marking the passage of time.  But the door doesn’t open, and they are given no leave to enter.  Angelica raises a hand awkwardly, but Lafayette plucks it from the air and drags it down.

He shakes his head minutely.

They wait.

Thoughts grow like a garden within Angelica’s head.  She finds herself flitting from one idea to the next.  Images come fast and quick.  Harsh sentences offset by harsher punishments.  Watching as Alexander burns alive in a house she thought was safe.  Standing idle as he and John Laurens are shot on a firing line.  Listening to the final marching drums beat out Washington’s last stand. Adrienne--killed for her attempts to manage the escape in the first place.  Her pretty dress torn and spattered with blood and dirt.  Eliza curled up.  Limp at her side.  

The King’s study door offers no guidance.  It stands firm.  Unfeeling and uncompromising.  Angelica bites her tongue to keep from licking her lips.  She pinches the skin of her palms between her nails.  Someone’s opened a window for a draft, and cool air slides along the hair at the name of Angelica’s skin.  She shivers unconsciously.

Heartbeat growing louder in her chest.  She opens her mouth to ask if he’s _sure_ the King heard his knock, but Lafayette merely cuts her a glance.  She falls still.  Enraptured by the rudeness of it all.  

The skin around her chest feels like its stretching farther and farther with each breath.  Her very ribs start to strain against her lungs.  Desperate to keep steady and yet unable to manage the simple command. She rocks on her heels.  Glances to her right.  Lafayette’s breathing slow.  It’s purposefully.  She can hear the rattle in his breath.  But with each pull in and push out, he’s maintaining a far better facade than anything she’s been able to affect.

She tries to match him breath for breath.  And she almost feels as though she’s managed it when _finally_ the King calls for them to enter.  Lafayette pushes open the door almost immediately.  Bowing his head he heralds her entry and announces her appropriately before the King.

King George is seated at his desk, and he makes no motion to rise.  Lafayette’s bows as is proper, and she matches with a polite curtsy.  Neither are given leave to rise.  Frozen, knees bent awkwardly and head ducked down, Angelica feels as if a fist has clenched her heart and squeezed it tight.  She bites her tongue savagely.  Pain filling her mouth and holding her steady.  She doesn’t draw blood, but she imagines it’s a near thing.  

She can just see Lafayette from the corner of her eye.   _Wait for it._ She tells herself.  Wait for permission.  “Thank you for joining me this morning, Ms. Schuyler,” the King says at long last.  Lafayette rises, and she does as well.  Folding her hands in front of her body.  He’s using the wrong name on purpose.  She hasn’t been a Schuyler since her wedding, and yet correcting him feels akin to suicide.

Still.  Being called a Schuyler from the man who murdered almost the entire Schuyler family sets her blood aflame.  Hot and corrosive, running through veins with the full intent to destroy everything in her path.  This man gave the order to kill her baby sister, her brothers, her nieces and nephews, her parents.  She is not going to quiver before him.  She’s proud of her heritage.  But his attack is an attack none the less and Angelica has no intentions of forgetting how he says her name.

Teasing.  Amused.

“It is an honor to stand before you,” Angelica says, smiling demurely.  Offering a second curtsey for emphasis.  This one requires no approval or acceptance.  It’s polite.  Not protocol.

King George adjusts his seat.  His cloak playing around his body.  Shining silk blouse reflecting the light of the room.  “It’s been brought to my attention that you were a guest of Marquise Lafayette last night,” he begins.  Shrewd eyes boring into her soul.  Angelica lets her smile grow.

“She requested my presence, your grace.”

“And what did she intend to do with your...presence?”

“A ball your grace.  She is interested in hosting a ball while staying in London.  She and the Ambassador have discussed methods in improving relations between our countries.  As I assisted in the festivities for last year’s yule...she requested I attend to her.”

Angelica’s almost certain that she’s never seen the King look so perturbed.  His eyes squint a touch, and his mouth parts.  He actually tilts his whole head to the side.  Staring at her as if she couldn’t possibly have spoken English.  Forcing her smile to grow, she adds a touch more enthusiasm to her tale.

“We were speaking with the other Ladies at Court today, before I received your summons.  Lady North has a particular interest in the cakes the Marquise mentioned.  She’s a grand admirer of French cuisine, as I am certain you are aware.  She finds herself a connoisseur of sorts, and the Marquise has brought with her several chefs of great renown.  One who has even worked for King Louis for several years.  Chef Voyeux, I believe he is called.”

King George’s mouth opens and closes awkwardly and he looks to Lafayette.  “Your wife wishes to have a _ball?”_

“She enjoys parties, your grace,” Lafayette replies calmly.  

“And what is this ball worth to her, do you think?” The King’s lips twist upward.  Not a smile.  A sneer.  Something that makes Lafayette flinch.  Look to the floor.  Press his lips tight together.

“The ball is, of course, in your honor your grace,” Angelica continues.  The King slides back to her.  Grease on a pan.  Slipping from one smooth surface to another.  “To show her gratitude, for your care of her husband and charge.  Your mercy.”

“My mercy,” he repeats hollowly.

Nodding, Angelica continues.  “You’ve kept traitors alive in order to show your hopes for a more promising future.  Your benevolence has inspired your people, and earned the Marquise’s deepest gratitude.  She wishes nothing more than to bestow an olive branch to you and our country.  Forestall any future conflict between our two nations.”

King George still seems to be considering her statement.  Though his initial disapproval has faded.  Bemusement reigns supreme.  Angelica wills her cheeks to blush.  Shifts her expression shyly.  “And...if I am to speak freely your grace….”

“Yes?” he prompts as she hesitates.

“When last we dance, I fear I embarrassed myself before you.  Should you still find me worthy...I would be honored to attempt to do better.”  When last they danced, he’d spun her around the room and she’d matched him pace for pace.  They’d struggled not at all, and he’d complimented her thoroughly for being a unique treasure from the colonies.  As though she’d been born a rose amongst the weeds.  The rare flower who managed to fight through the thistles and thrive.

The King smiles at her.  Standing smoothly.  “Then we truly _will_ have to have a ball then won’t we?  In order for you to prove yourself?”

“Oh thank you your grace, the Marquise will be delighted to hear of it.  As will Lady North and Bainbridge of course.  There’s already been orders made to the tailor, and the seamstresses will be hard at work to ensure that all is proper.  Have you any requests for the evening your majesty?  We would be delighted if you chose.”

“Have it at the White Tower,” the King says with a smile.  

“Of course sir,” Angelica says slowly.  What better way to celebrate the King’s mercy than to have a ball at the Tower of London.  It takes every piece her self-control she possesses in order to smile and curtsey once more.   “A marvelous choice.  The Marquise will be so pleased! And the cake,” she cannot help but adding.  “From what I’ve heard, the cake is absolutely to die for.”

“We shall have it in abundance then,” George hums thoughtfully.

“Yes, your grace...we most certainly shall.”


	21. Martha

Martha ties the strings of her apron around her waist.  Slides her hands against her thighs in order to make sure her hands are clean.  Adrienne’s party took time to plan.  She met with various Ladies, entertained endless guests.  She held small social events that soon became synonymous with being a part of the elite.  Good food, good music, good company.  Adrienne was already a brilliant socialite prior to this farce, and she capitalized on it so very well.

She and Eliza kept each other’s company as though they could never be parted.  Attending church together daily to pray.  Becoming more and more acclimated with one another.  So close to each other that their togetherness seemed natural.  They leaned toward one another easily.  Held hands as they walked down the streets.  Smiled and teased one another in French before Eliza provided translations to the rest of the room.  

Eliza played the piano beautifully, and Adrienne had her play during each party.  Motioning toward her enthusiastically the whole while,  _ You see? You see? Isn’t my little lamb so talented?  _

Humorously, calling Eliza little compared to Adrienne seemed absurd.  Eliza stood at least ten centimeters taller than Adrienne naturally.  And bizarrely, Adrienne seemed intent on dressing Eliza so her shoes gave her an added two centimeters in height.  Her dress hid her strange footwear, and they practiced their paces in her walk.  Awkward at first, Eliza wobbled in her shoes.  Unused to the feeling of added weight beneath her feet.  

Adrienne had her practice constantly, though, until she could walk unencumbered.  Martha half wondered if their hand holding initially stemmed from Adrienne subtly assisting Eliza as she walked.  “What purpose do the additions provide?” Martha asked Adrienne once, but Adrienne had just waved off the question and said something about options.

In any case, Eliza positively towered over Adrienne when they walked about.  And without her shoes, her dress needed to be bunched up in her hands in whole folds to keep from tripping on the hem.  Dancing, Martha suspected, would be the most challenging part of the charade.  But with Eliza at the piano it rather absolved her of such things. 

Martha followed behind them both, feeling remarkably diminutive beside them.  And yet, Martha found that her role thus far had been the easiest to maintain.  She served entirely as a caretaker to Adrienne and her whims.  Found herself constantly running errands and fetching whatever miscellaneous item that Adrienne felt she needed. 

There were whole days where Martha spent hours parted from Adrienne and Eliza.  Hurrying from place to place and delivering messages.  Even as the winter chill came in quick, Martha found herself sweating in an un-ladylike fashion.  Her pits moistening and her thighs rubbing together uncomfortably beneath her wool skirting.  

The White Tower.  The  _ White  _ Tower.  That kind of tongue in cheek rudeness that made Martha’s teeth grind at night.  And for Adrienne?  She merely smiled at the proclamation and openly rejoiced.  Discussed her enthusiasm for the symbolism and the wonderful spectacle they intended to put on.  

More servants and cloth were summoned from France.  Baubles were collected and gathered.  It seemed that each day there was simply an endless excess of treats and delights funneling in and out of the city.  Martha had been sent to collect such things on more than one occasion, and she received letters and orders as needed.

Her hands had calloused during the war, but now those calluses thickened.  Her palms turned tough as she hoisted basket after basket.  Carried load after load.  No amount of work decreased her girth any, but it hardly seemed to matter.  She faded effortlessly into the background of the festivities.  Where no one took note of her and she disappeared amongst the faceless servants of King George’s palace. 

Friends were easy to come by.  Martha spoke to the other men and women of her assumed station.  Mary introduced her to the most promising lot.  Transitioning her seamlessly into their social clusters and groups.  The other servants hardly bat an eye at her once Mary declared Martha to be a ‘good un.’ 

Now, when Martha passed the others in the halls they smiled.  They shared mealtimes together.  In all her life, Martha had never once spent this much time with a member of the lower class.  The slaves in her household as a child, and as a married woman years later, had never once held her interest.  They existed to serve her and see to it her needs were met. 

The work necessary to meet such needs were quite extraordinary.  Her muscles ached at the end of the day.  Her spine cracked as she walked.  Her hips felt as though they’d become unaligned, and she struggled to balance her duties throughout the day.  Adrienne made certain not to overburden her aging body to any great extent, but Adrienne also behaved in a manner that was expected of her. 

Servants, Martha knew, could only act in one way.  And as kind as Adrienne may be in her requests, their charade depended on her treating Martha like any other member of the working class.  She chafed at the position.  In truth.  A part of her mind twisted and rebelled against the commands she was given off hand.  Scandalized by the salacious comments and absurd taunts the gentry feel compelled to send her way.  More than once, Mary has taken to pulling her bodily from a potential disruption.  Calling her name and distracting her away from  the men. 

Talking to her about flowers.  Will.  Has she met Will yet?  Martha hasn’t.  Doesn’t think she’s going to.  But Mary will chatter on.  How she travels to the docks every day pre-dawn and inspects new supplies that need to be purchased.  How some of the other servants will occasionally attend with her so that she can collect goods all at one time.  Bring them back up to the palace.  It’s hard work, but it can be surprisingly rewarding.  After-all, every room in the palace has her mark in it. 

Regrettably, the palace only truly needs one flower girl.  And Mary’s it.  There’s no place for Martha there, regardless of how keen she would be to become involved.  She has enough nonsense she needs to sort through.  Still, she listens to Mary tell her about the flowers, the arrangements.  How they need to sit in the vases and where she collects them from.  About how even flowers that have a reputation to be poisonous are still beautiful to look at and can help cast an exotic glow around the palace so long as they are done correctly. 

She’s very proud of her arrangements. 

The shipments come every day, and they go out the same way.  Greenhouses from all around provide the necessary products, and Will tends to them in a small garden not far from the Church estate. Will is, apparently, a very shrewd caretaker of the plant life.  Chastising her immediately if things go wrong.  He sounds like a fierce overseer, but Mary seems impervious to such comments. 

And as for Martha...for the time being, service was her life.  It’s not a particularly good life. But it’s one that affords a certain amount of clarity that Martha had never considered.  Like just how much she used to take her servants for granted.  How they so easily faded into the background of the universe, unknowing and unnecessary.  Martha has stood within inches of the King of England, and he has never once looked at her.  Never once suspected or took note of the fact that she was there.  That it would be so entirely easy to slide a knife through his ribs should she be so inclined.  She listens to the gossip in the kitchens and feels more reliably informed than she has ever felt in all her years of working politics. 

The camps at war hadn’t gathered this level of gossip and political intrigue, and she had been living shoulder to shoulder with soldiers!  “If you ever want to start a rumor,” Mary told her thoughtfully.  “You tell it to the staff, and you make them promise not to say.” 

As the final arrangements for the Ball are set in place, Martha finds that she has been quite well versed in the art of spreading rumors.  It’s quite fun once you get started.  A whisper here, a stray comment there.   _ I was fetching a package for the Marquise when I ran into Sally who spoke to Amber, who heard from Daniel, who said a cousin of his down by the docks discovered that General Clinton is going to be knighted!  _

A good rumor must come in parts.  There must be the official qualifications.  Someone had to have heard it from someone.  But, it must also be vague.  A name is lost within the trail of associations.  It must be specific, the rumor is only quantifiable if it can be verifiable.  Silly notions such as the Duke having an affair are not nearly as satisfying without a name to go along with it.  The Duke having an affair with the Countess! Now  _ that  _ is a story.  

And, as Martha quickly discovers, a good rumor must be true.

At the core of it, there must be a thread of truth.  Sprinkle in the embellishments all you want, that merely casts the shadow of falsehood.  But a  _ real  _ rumor, is one that takes hold.  Grips the mind.  Instill seeds of apprehension and doubt.  Where you  _ know  _ it’s just a tale that’s being told...but what if it’s true?  What if it’s  _ not  _ just a story? 

What if the colonists are preparing for another rebellion? 

What if Holland means to declare war on England? 

What if King George is truly mad? 

“He yelled at Lady Crane today,” Martha tells little Lizzie Taylor.  Tiny young thing who sweeps the chimneys in the West Wing.  “Do be careful you don’t earn his wrath, sweet girl.”  She stares up at her with wide eyes and nods agreeably. 

It doesn’t take much.  

It never does. 

But rumors only grow, and the  _ knowing  _ is half the joy of the  _ telling.  _

Martha dedicates herself to her task.  She finds immense satisfaction when her rumors circle back around to her.   _ Have you heard…?  _ And when she returns to Adrienne and Eliza’s side, she delights in sharing her wealth of knowledge.  Particularly when Adrienne can take that knowledge and share it with the gentry.

They’ll all have heard pieces already.  It’s an ouroboros.  A snake eating its own tail.  Adrienne holds Eliza’s hand.  She relies on Martha’s words, Mary’s guidance, and together— they pierce above and below.  

Weeks seem to trickle by.  Days passing like fog.  There are blue fabrics being dyed and draped along fine tables.  Adrienne orders extra meals and wine to be given to the soldiers patrolling the Tower.  Always sent with her compliments.  She makes it a point to deliver such things personally where she can.  

“They need to see my face,” Adrienne explained.  “And they need to see yours.”  They make the walk every day.  King George doesn’t give them permission to enter any of the surrounding Towers, but they can walk the grounds.  Set up the ball in the White Tower.  Visit the ravens. 

Ravenmaster Edwards is a true gentleman.  While Adrienne plays tourist with her ensemble of entertained Ladies, he bows to her.  Treats her with the kind of respect Martha estimates even a Queen would be envious of.  He is perfectly proper.  A gentleman at all times.  

He introduces them to the ravens.  “There’s Anne and Alfred,” he begins,  “Olaf and Catherine.”  They need to walk a little further to meet. Duncan and Gilbert.  

“Just as charming as my husband,” Adrienne teases, much to the delight of the court.  “Very charming indeed.”  

“There’s a seventh isn’t there?”  Lady Kensington asks, fanning herself with the French handheld Adrienne had provided to her not two days past.  

“Knox, my Lady,” Edwards bows.  “He’s...grown quite fond of young Master Hamilton.  They are hardly without one another.” 

Martha’s breath catches in her throat.  She glances toward Eliza, but Eliza shows no reaction.  Just clings tight to Adrienne’s hand.  Continues her translations with a steadfast determination that’s more than a little admirable.  She speaks for the Marquise, “And where do you keep the ravens at night?  Surely there must be a danger of foxes?” 

And Edwards bows his head to her once more.  “There is a hutch the ravens go to each night.  Well maintained by Hamilton and Laurens...their service to the Empire.” 

“What an important service it is,” Eliza continues.  She holds onto Adrienne, and Martha waits to be addressed.  For direction.  Martha knows what Eliza yearns for.  The reunion that Adrienne had already received.  The chance that Adrienne had already had.  To hold her husband in her arms and be gratified of his health. 

John Laurens had been a poor broken boy with a mind half splintered and a body flagging from work.  He shied from touch and talked as though he had not one of his senses remaining, and Eliza had looked to him and supplanted Alexander’s face to his body.  Martha finds it all too easy to imagine her dear Washington in much the same way.  

“I shall very much like to meet this Knox one day,” Adrienne says instead.  She lets Edwards continue to escort them.  They pass the hutch only briefly.  But neither John nor Alexander are anywhere to be seen.  

The winter chill blows in. 

And all that changes is Lafayette. 

The King grants him permission to live with Adrienne.  To stay with her instead of whatever room he’d been staying in prior.  Martha heard her ask him once, what it cost him to make such an arrangement, but the meaning was lost through translation.  French too low and too guttural for Martha to translate, and Eliza was nowhere to be found.  Some conversations, Martha knows, are best for a couple in the privacy of their own rooms. 

She and Eliza lay together at night.  Warming themselves as the winter chill digs into their bones.  She pets Eliza’s hair and tells her stories, sometimes, of what life was like during the war.  When the boys would play pranks on one another.  When they’d look up at her and seem for all the world to be little angels.  Dabbled in snow, wet and weary.  So many of her husband’s aides were now angels proper.  But these three lived on. 

Will continue to live on. 

The ball starts with trumpets and fanfare.  Lords and Ladies cross the moat to the Tower grounds.  Martha and Mary meeting in the White Tower’s kitchens.  Assisting the chefs with the food and hurrying it out to the buffet.  An quartet is playing beautiful baroque tunes, French music occasionally offset by the more familiar Italian.  There’s talk of Mozart, and Martha occasionally hears familiar notes from his pieces. 

“They’re eating more food in one night than the entirety of London could in a week,” Mary mutters under her breath as she comes back to the kitchens for another set of hors d'oeuvres.  

The gluttony is obscene.  Martha’s stomach squeezes itself as she looks at the people.   _ I was that once,  _ she reminds herself harshly.   _ I was this not too long ago.   _ She serves the Lords and Ladies.  She keeps her head down, and glances about the room.  Eliza’s easy to see.  So much taller than the rest of them.  She’s of a level with many of the men.  Martha can track her easily, and with that alone—she can keep watch over Adrienne. 

She sees it when Adrienne dances with the King.  Sees how she smiles and charms.  Clapping and turning with the steps of their contredanse.  She curtseys to him and laughs with delight.  She exchanges similar pleasantries with Prince George, flirting openly with him and exchanging kisses on the cheek. 

They sit together for much of the evening, heads tucked close like little courtiers learning how to play together.  Children both.  Prince George is not nearly the tactician that his father is.  Nor is he entirely immune to the traits and values of a beautiful woman whose eyes are solely on him.  His cheeks blush so bright, Martha can see them from across the room.  He keeps licking his lips and drinking mouthful after mouthful of wine. 

They’re of an age, Martha knows.  Only three years apart.  He’s bad with his drink and Adrienne seems not to notice.  She continues to talk to him, occasionally pulling him up to dance with him in the hall.  Stopping only to spend time paying good respect to the Queen.  

It’s time for dessert, and Martha hurries to collect the cakes.  One for everyone.  She balances her platter with care, and walks up to the main hall with it.  Bowing as she moves to serve the King and Queen.  “With compliments of the chef, your majesty,” she murmurs politely.  

He doesn’t look up at her.  Instead, he cuts into his dessert and spears a piece on his fork.  He eats it slowly.  Teeth masticating it with great precision.  He swallows slowly, and for a moment, Martha forgets to breathe.  King George pauses.  Fork hesitating before his lips.  He hums thoughtfully.  “Marquise!” he calls out. 

The room quiets.  Conversation simmering as all eyes float to the King.  George stands, beckoning her over with a flick of his wrist.  Adrienne extracts herself from the Prince and walks to him.  Back tall.  Eliza quietly following at her side.  They curtsey low and appropriately.  “A marvelous ball you’ve conjured, my dear,” the King proclaims.  “And it is as you promised...the cuisine is sublime.”  He lifts a wine glass in her honor and she giggles delicately.  

“Truly, your majesty, the...honor is my own.  You’re...kingship...is to admired.  And I am in your debt for your kindness…” it’s a play on words.  And a crafty one at that.  Martha slides backwards.  Starts to make her way back to the kitchens.  The conversation continues and she and Mary proceed with their work.  

Adrienne had given explicit instructions that all the staff were to receive favors for their work.  Even those unable to attend.  Already servants were stepping out to give wine to the soldiers on the wall.  Cakes for families to take home.  Gift after gift after gift. 

When next Martha enters the ballroom, Eliza catches her eye.  She tilts her head at Martha.  Beckoning her quietly.  Adrienne is with the King.  “Ah, there you are,” Adrienne couldn’t sound less interested if she tried.  Then to Eliza, she makes a shooing motion.  “My dear, if you would…?” 

“His grace has gallantly accepted the Marquise’s proposal to supply cakes to the prisoners.  She would prefer to remain at the ball, however, and so if would deliver such goods...she would be appreciative.”

Martha’s breath catches in her throat.  She nods her head.   _ “Of course my Lady,”  _ she tells Adrienne in French.  Adrienne doesn’t look to her.  Just flicks her fingers away and continues speaking with the King.  Not paying her any mind.  

Martha takes one step back.  Then another.  Another.  She curtseys, tries to remember to go slow.  To walk back to the kitchens without so much as drawing a single eye in her direction.  She sets up a basket.  Gathers wine for the guards, cakes as well.  She wraps a shawl above her head.  A cloak around her shoulders.  Pulls on gloves, and tries to control her breathing.  

The Devereux Tower.  

Third floor.  

Rumor has it George Washington is a polite prisoner.  Quiet and reserved.  He sits at the window and watches the grounds.  He is dignified and pleasant.  Gives good greetings to the staff when they come to address him.  Is cordial to his guards. 

Rumor has it George Washington is a haggard man.  Heartbroken and empty. 

Rumor has it that he’s the one who branded John Laurens.  That he had his son hold John down as he pressed hot iron to John’s chest—forever marking him a slave of the crown. 

Rumor has it that  _ he’s  _ got a brand of his own. 

Martha slips on the snowy cobblestone, but she catches herself and her breath.  She balances herself. Steadies herself.  Moves forward.  She walks past the raven hutch, ignores the small candlelight that belongs to two boys she longs to see, but who matter very little to her at this moment in time. 

She hurries toward the Devereux and presses open the door.  Cold air blows in behind her.  Snow flurries in after her.  Jack Frost chasing her heels.  She closes the door and then takes to the stairs.  Up, up, up she goes.  Heart fluttering in her chest.  She catches sight of the red coats. 

Tarly and Jameson, rumor says. 

“Wine and dessert from the ball good sirs,” she announces, holding up her basket.  They both share a bright expression.

“Thank you!” One says.  “Truly you’re a saint!” 

She hands the wine to them both, and then informs them she’s under orders to supply the prisoner with some as well.  They’re distracted by her basket.  Too busy divvying up the goods she provided.  The guard on the left returns her final portion to her, then opens the door. 

Martha steps across the threshold. 

And her husband looks up.

Tarly and Jameson are bickering.  Trying to figure out which one got the better cake.  The door closes behind her, and she steps forward.  Her Washington stands.  He’s shaking on his feet, and he looks so thin.  More than all the days at Valley Forge had made him.  

She stumbles toward him.  Food and drink all but tumbling to the ground.  She just barely manages to place the wine down gently before she is rushing to his arms.  Oh god his arms. 

His strong arms which carried her over the threshold on their wedding night.  The arms that rocked her to sleep when she needed his support.  The arms that held her when her daughter died.  That carried her heart and soul with the same care and delicacy as they carried her body.  

Her Washington stammers, “How-how are you—did-did he—?”

“I don’t have long,” she tells him.  She brings her hands to his face.  His skin is filthy.  His hair is tangled.  His beard hangs down to his chest.  His face is still there, hidden behind horror and strife.  “I’m going to save you, my husband,” she tells him.  “I’m going to save you.” 

“Martha….I don’t understand.”  She kisses him.  Cannot stop herself from pressing her lips against his. 

“Adrienne.  Gilbert’s wife—she’s—have faith, my husband.”  She kisses him again,  drawing back.  Knowing that she cannot stay here for long.  Knowing that she must leave before the guards peer in.  Before they see this embrace.  Before they hear their words.  “I love you…”   God, she  _ loves him so much.   _ When she goes to extract herself from him, he holds on just a touch too long.  Fighting against her.  

Trembling almost as he watches her pull away.  “I love you,” she whispers again.  

“I love you too,” he tells her.  He looks dazed.  As if he’s dreaming this.  As if he cannot fathom she’s truly here.  She stumbles away.  Backs to the door.  It’s too soon.  It’s not enough.  But he’s here.  He’s standing.  All his limbs are attached and he’s disheveled, but he’s here.  He’s here. “I love you,” he repeats.  Stronger this time.  Yearning etched on every part of his face. 

“Wait for me my love,” she pleads.

And he says the only word that matters.  The only word she needs to hold onto now and all the days to come.  He says, “Always,” and she finds the strength to turn.

And walk away.


	22. Eliza

Ravenmaster Edwards permits them to visit the raven hutch after the ball.  Adrienne gifts him with wine and good food, and he is so pleased with the offering he waves them in without so much as questioning their presence.  “We won’t be able to stay long,” Adrienne tells Eliza softly, “but it’s a start.”  It’s more than Eliza would have had otherwise.  Even this is a potential distraction from Adrienne’s end goal.  

They’ll need to continue on their journey, giving supplies to so many other people so this stop feels like nothing more than an addition to a long list of names.  But it’s worth it.  As Eliza shivers in the cold, her breath fogging before her face, she tells herself it’s going to be worth it.  They approach the hutch quietly, and they push open the door slowly. 

It’s entirely dark inside.  Sleeping birds slowly waking up to watch them.  Eliza lifts her lantern, other hand squeezing so tight around Adrienne’s.  She’s terrified, if she’s going to be honest.  Terrified that she won’t know what to say.  That she won’t say the right thing.  John _must_ have told Alex that she was here, but she doubts it will make much of a difference.  

She sways the lantern left to right, and—there. 

Near the back wall lay two bodies.  Curled around each other, arms and legs tangled.  A blanket overtop of them.  Not nearly warm enough to keep the chill out.  The boys are liable to freeze like that if they haven’t already.  Eliza hurries forward.  The ravens start to cry.

Great crowing sounds that jerk both _prisoners_ from their sleep. John throws himself back into the corner, eyes wide and body square.  He looks up at Eliza with nothing save true terror on his features.  As though she intended to drag him from this room by his hair and beat him bloody in the snow.  

But her attention waivers from poor John.  Alex awakened too.  Knees drawn up and crouching now.  If not barricading John with his presence, than at the very least blocking him from immediate access.  His eyes squint in the dark.  His hair hangs in his face.  He licks his lips and his fingers twitch at his side. 

Eliza lowers the lantern so it no longer shines directly in front of her face.  Casting ambient light around them all.  Revealing her face to him.  “Betsey….?” Alex whispers. The mere word seemingly dragging from his lips.  Yet, his bunched shoulders relax.  His arms drop to his sides.  He looks up at her as though she’s an angel descended from Heaven.  Adrienne releases her hand and pulls free. 

Eliza runs. 

Her damnable shoes trip on the uneven floor, but he bursts to his feet.  Catching her against his chest as she falls.  The lantern slips from her fingers and lands, miraculously, on its bottom.  Standing upright even as Alex’s strong arms wrap around her.  

He smells rank.  Filthy and awful.  Sweat and a strange odor of decay.  Defecation.  She couldn’t care less if she tried.  Her arms encircle his body.  She presses her cheek to his chest and can hear his heart fluttering beneath her ear. 

She expects words and words of prose.  She expects poetry and adulations.  She expects stumbling consonants and too long vowels.  Broken dreams that come together in an amalgamation of metaphor and sincerity.  She hears his breath stuttering from his chest.  Feels how his chest rises and falls in hitching gasps.  His arms hold her tighter and tighter still.  

Dragging her backward until he collapses against the wall.  Pulling her down with him.  John scrambles.  A wet cat hissing mad.  He gets to his feet and abandons his position in the corner.  “Behave, John,” Adrienne tells him stiffly.  

“Behave, behave, yes, I’ll just behave,” John spits.  He’s shaking in the lantern light.  Long shadow quivering on the wall.  “What are you doing here?” 

The Marquise looks at John with the kind of patient expression she reserves for a recalcitrant mouser.  Unwilling to do its duty to kill rats and mice.  Longing only to languish by the fire and receive treats from lazy chefs dropping bits to the floor.  “She’s not seen her husband,” Adrienne tells John patiently.  “Everyone else has seen their lovers, why should she not?” 

“It’s not a game of give and take Lady Laf—it’s about not getting caught.  You think that you’re going to get away with this?  You think no one’s going to notice?  You’re wrong.  You’re wrong and you just got us all killed and—”

“—Do shut up, John.” Adrienne fold her hands in front of her body.  Her lips press thin.  John’s shaking harder now.  His hands rising.  Tight and furious.  

For a moment, Eliza fears he’ll strike Adrienne.  But he doesn’t.  He forces his hands to his sides.  “It’s not a game,” he tells her darkly.  “It’s not a game this is our lives and—”

“—Martha is with Washington now.”  John’s mouth closes again.  Alex shifts.  Sitting more upright even as his arms still encircle Eliza’s body.  He still hasn’t said anything, but he’s looking to John with a marksman’s ability.  As if he could never lose sight of John.  Twenty, thirty, one hundred paces off, his eyes track John effortlessly.  A moon and it’s earth.  Rotating endlessly as a planet does the sun. 

Eliza longs to hear her husband’s voice.  But his lips move soundlessly.  His eyes blink out into the darkness.  Attention clear.   But he show no signs of communication.  No interest in speaking true.  Her name had been an anomaly, forced from him due to shock.  “Alexander…?” Eliza whispers softly.  He jerks bad.  Looks to her even as he squeezes her tighter.  She can almost not breathe at all now that she sits here.  Eyes wide.  “Alexander…?” 

“He’s not gonna talk to you,"  John tells her.  Once started, never stopping.  "Doesn’t even talk to me.  Not really.  Not since they gagged him.  Beat him when he speaks.  Why would he talk to you?  It’s not like you’re special.”  Alex’s eyes narrow.  His lips pull back in a snarl. 

“Enough,” he forces between his teeth.  Bottom lip dragging along the ‘gh.’  Spit ejecting from his mouth.  John flinches.  Stricken.  His head tilts downwards.  Muttering nonsense as Alex adjusts his grip on her body.  Lifts a hand to touch her hair.  Her cheeks.  “Missed you.”  John flinches again and stalks to the other side of the hutch.  Adrienne following him, hissing under her breath.  Eliza misses the rebuke.  She’s too caught up in looking at her husband. 

“I missed you as well,” she whispers.  She kisses him.  Heedless of his smell and his taste.  The bitter salt along her lips means nothing to her.  Just the feel of his body against her.  Warming her in her heart of hearts.  Clutching her insides and setting them aflame.  She has wanted this man for so many months.  They weren’t supposed to have lived a life like this.  This hadn’t been their destiny.  “My love,” she murmurs softly,  “If your words are gone, I shall try to speak them for you.” 

She lifts a hand to cup his precious cheek.  She kisses his tender flesh and sighs against his well loved face.  “I am neither a poet nor great orator, but I shall endeavor to learn how.  To give life to the words I hope you will appreciate.  I’ll be your voice should you need one.”  

He surges up.  Kissing her lips.  Hard and demanding.  Squeezing her even still.  When he pulls back, her rouge has smeared along his mouth.  His already feminine features made more so by the coating.  They don’t have time for anything more than this.  Adrienne speaks to John with quiet urgency, distracting him from their exchange.  “Are...you careful?” Alexander asks.  His lips barely moving, his voice almost silent, but his breath giving shape to words she sees as clear as day. 

Written, like fire, between them.  She cherishes each one.  If he’s lost his words, then they will merely need to find another way to communicate.  She welcomes the challenge.  At least he is here to have the challenge with.  “Very careful,” she tells him.  She kisses him again.  “And you?” 

His lips twitch.  Not a smile, but close.  Sad and weary, but there none the less.  His tongue presses against the corner of his mouth.  Licking the edge lightly.  There’s a faint scar there.  Small and hardly noticeable in the dim light. He takes her hand in his.  Strangely, Eliza feels a warm course of air around her fingers.  As if the stones were being heated by something.  She’s not sure what.  But the hutch feels warm here.  Good.  She hopes it warms he and John both. 

“You need to go,” John tells her from over her shoulder.  She knows she does.  Alex knows it too.  He’s heartbroken as he looks to her.  Devastation clear as day. 

Stealing one last kiss, she carefully clambers to her feet.  Balancing awkwardly on her shoes.  Her husband squints at her, like he cannot quite place what’s different but doesn’t wish to offend.  “Happy anniversary…” she whispers to him miserably.  Tears prick at his eyes.  It’s been one year since they said their vows. 

But there’s no time to say anything more. 

Eliza gathers the lantern and walks to John.  He’s stiff and awkward, shying away as he had every other moment their paths had crossed. He doesn’t like to be touched.  Embraced.  Held down.  But he’ll drape himself around Alexander’s body.  Seek warmth from her husband.   _ Good,  _ she thinks.   _ Let him.   _ She dares a kiss.  Leaning forward despite how he steps back.  Heels clicking against the wall.  His breath coming in short gasps, eyes wide.  But he keeps his hands at his sides as she lets her lips grace the corner of his mouth.  “You take such good care of him,” she tells John softly.  “Be sure to keep yourself safe as well.” 

He’s still staring at her by the time she and Adrienne leave.  Struck momentarily silent by her request.  It matters not.  Escape and victory are a long ways out, and until the pieces are in position, that request is all they have to hold onto.  She hopes they take it to heart. 

***

Pierre has a fire burning for them when they get back to the house.  Martha is already there.  Divested of her wet dress and cloak.  Settled in a chair with a blanket over legs.  Cup of tea in her hands.  She sips it slowly.  Staring at the flickering fire as if it held the answers to the universe. 

Adrienne tells her they’ll be with her momentarily, and leads Eliza up to her room to change.  Eliza immediately divests her feet of the damnable shoes.  Kicking them away with no  small degree of prejudice.  Adrienne assists her with her dress.  Unbuttoning the sides and unlacing the bodice.  

Slipping free, Eliza shivers nakedly as she feels about for her night gown.  Her hair, still powdered and stylized for the ball, will need to be adjusted.  For now, a night cap can hold it in good order until the hairdresser can assist in the morning.  Returning it to a fashionable style more suitable for a lady in waiting than a debutante. 

Once she is situated appropriately, she moves to Adrienne.  Giving her the care and consideration Adrienne showed her.  “What did you and John talk about?” Eliza asks.  She lost the trail of the conversation while she was with Alexander.  But he’d seemed...somewhat calmer than he’d been initially by the time they left.  Still filled with nervous energy, though not nearly as hostile as he’d been when they’d enterred. 

“Nothing of consequence,” Adrienne replied.  It’s a standard response Eliza’s come to memorize.  She says it when she has no intention of sharing information.  When she means to be private.  Still.  Adrienne’s expression is troubled.  Her lips press together tightly.  She’ll retain that look for some time, Eliza knows.  Until she needs to appear otherwise, she’ll stay as this.  Thoughtful and contemplative.  Attempting to navigate the treacherous fields of their plotting. 

She assists Adrienne in changing quickly.  Fetches a warm shawl to wrap along her shoulders.  They descend back to the parlor in order to meet with Martha.  Unsurprised to find both Pierre and Lafayette there.  Eliza hadn’t seen much of Lafayette during the ball.  He loitered, somewhat obtrusively, along the edges of the feast.  Only occasionally stepping forward when the King summoned him.  

Queen Charlotte, at one point, requested his presence.  They spoke briefly about his station as far as Eliza had been able to determine, though her attention had been primarily levied upon Adrienne.  The entire affair felt strange.  Lafayette quiet and subdued.  Still charming, yes, but generally invisible.  A decorative candlestick, pretty to look at and occasionally eye catching, but nonetheless...a candlestick. 

By contrast, Angelica had stunned and astonished.  She’d always been a delight of any party.  Capable of good conversation and even more impressive dancing.  She and King George had delighted in many exchanges.  Laughing and teasing as though they were friends.  The King in a good mood all evening.  She’d shared cake after cake with him, and deftly encouraged him to add it to his daily palette.  Surely as King such things should be commonplace.  

Perhaps it was the endless fountains of wine, but the King had been more than agreeable to it.  Ordering the servants to make it so.  Cheers erupting from the inebriated crowd in response. 

And yet, despite not dancing at all, Lafayette seems far more exhausted than anyone else in the room.  His skin nearly waxy by comparison.  His hair hanging limp.  He slumps in his seat, eyes barely open as he murmurs quietly to Pierre in French.  Martha watching them shrewdly the whole while. 

Adrienne observes her husband for a moment.  Taking in his posture and his lackluster appearance.  She turns to Martha instead.  “Tell me about the Devereux Tower,” she instructs with little preamble. 

The Tower, Martha explains, is constructed primarily of stone.  Most of the Towers are.  But this is built with great stone slabs that lay across the floor in heavy deposits.  Walls several feet thick.  Windows high and paned--not easily broken or slipped out of.  Stairs lead to Washington’s room, and it is guarded by two men. 

Cheery fellows who were very polite and kind, but dressed in red coats.  They spoke in puns and shared their humor with her.  Wishing her and her family health and happiness.  Thanking her for the food and drink. 

“A small passage does lead to the chapel,” Martha continues.  “Though it is mostly hidden by various furniture.  My thoughts are it is intended to be servant or emergency use only.”

“How many alternative rooms are there?” Adrienne presses.  “Alcoves or potential places to wait?”  Not many.  The walls were sheer stone.  The news isn’t met with anything more than a slow nod.  “We need access to the Tower then.  Unlimited and familiar access.” 

“The King will never allow it,” Lafayette sighs.  He rubs at his eyes wearily.  “Your brief permission was an exchange of sorts, and even then he did not permit  _ you  _ to enter.”  

He’d been adamant on it in fact.  Scoffing at the idea initially.  It was only when Adrienne had shied away from actually visiting in person did he permit Martha’s entry.  And only when the  _ Prince  _ had made an appeal.   _ It’s Christmas,  _ the fool boy had commented.   _ Surely even prisoners celebrate Christmas.  _

“There are circumstances that could allow it,” Adrienne hedges.  

“Not without standing in harm’s way,” he refutes.  From his tone, he’s adamant about it.  Adrienne arches one perfectly plucked brow.  Nods slowly, and then addresses her next concern.  

“With winter coming, most guards and patrolmen will be focused inside.  Trails are left more easily and there will be too many bodies to navigate around.” Eliza cannot help but think back to Alex’s sad expression.  The wild look in John’s eyes.  Mary’s description of events thus far.  

She feels a swell of panic within her.  “You mean to wait until spring.”

“Trade increases in the spring, Angelica told us that.  More ships, more travel, more faces to hide amongst.  In the winter,  the faces are too similar.  The people too familiar.  You notice someone different in the winter where you don’t in the spring.  Four months of waiting now, provides for a viable escape.  One that may not happen otherwise.” 

Pierre pours a new cup of tea and presses it into Lafayette’s hands.  Then does the same for Eliza.  “We still need access to the Tower,” he reminds.  “It will give us time to find that avenue.” 

To his left, Lafayette slouches deeper into the couch.  He holds the tea, but does not drink it.  Looking off to the side.   _ He’s melting,  _ Eliza thinks.  Like water over a mountainside.  Slipping deep into the earth and vanishing out of sight.  He’s looked progressively more tired since their arrival some months back.  Appearing at the house later and later.  

Sometimes drunk, other times fever flushed.  Despite technically living in the same house together, Eliza rarely sees him.  Her sister likely spends more time with him, and that in of itself is bizarre.  

“Four months to find access into an impenetrable Tower?” Eliza asks, trying hard not to be bitter.  “And then we’ll save them?”

“No,” Adrienne replies.  She shakes her head and starts to pace.  Expression still tight.  “We could save the others sooner...today even. It's four months to save the General alone.” Eliza stares.  Even Martha seems surprised by the decree, though Lafayette merely appears resigned.  “Alexander and John are treated as servants.  Slaves.  A simple task assigned to them that sends them to a kitchen, into a laundry bin, easily removed from the tower.  Vanishing from sight. My husband,” she points needlessly, “is sitting in our parlor.  Saving  _ them  _ is easy.  They are nothing to the Empire, or even the King himself.  He will be furious with their removal, but he is not truly concerned with the actions of a disowned son, a bastard, and a French lord he cannot even touch.” 

Of course.  The logic is sound.  But Eliza feels as though she’s somehow been tricked.  Hurt rises within her.  If Alex could be spared torment, then why would they willingly allow him to remain in captivity?  Remain a  _ slave?   _ She bites her tongue, trying to hold back on the emotions rising within her.

“They won’t leave,” Lafayette says.  He’s staring at her.  Eyes hooded in shadows.  “You would never convince John nor Alex to leave.  To disappear in the night and leave our General behind.  They stay for the same reason I do.  Loyalty.  It has to be all of us.  Or it will be none of us.” 

Four months.  Four months to plan through the winter seems like it’s hardly enough time at all.  But Adrienne shakes her head.  She pats Eliza’s cheek.  “You will see.  We will find a way to the tower. We simply must consider all of our options.” 

And they must play pretend for far longer than Eliza could have ever hoped or dreamed.  She tries not to think about that as Adrienne asks for Martha to describe the General’s condition in as exact a way as possible.  She tries to just close her eyes and hold the image of her husband in her mind.  But when she thinks of him at their wedding day, warm and vibrant, she cannot help but supplant that with how he looked now.  Small, cold, and quietly wasting away.

***

The winter is cold.  

Snow flickers about and builds on the streets.  Adrienne sends for custom scarves and shawls to be made.  Wrapping up warm and instructing Eliza to wear the scarf at all times.  She bundles into it, and lets Adrienne instruct her how to mind her hair under the shawl.  

They continue on in court.  Speaking to the Ladies and rejoicing in the success of the ball.  They discuss an Easter ball.  Angelica sits next to Eliza and she offers ideas while sharing warm glances with her.  It feels fake.  Wrong.  

Like they’ve climbed the tree to the highest branch, but the view hasn’t cleared.  The sight hasn’t improved.  They’re still shrouded in branches and are hidden from view.  Mary and Martha continue cultivating rumors and stories.  The former working between the Tower and the Palace while the latter becomes far more familiar in the Palace kitchens.  Adrienne can only have her meals served in a very specific way, of course. 

Adrienne’s cake recipe becomes a unique favorite.  Served at almost every meal.  “It’s the talk of the town,” Angelica tells Eliza when they manage to catch a moment together.  It feels strange, standing taller than her sister, but Eliza has become used to it.  Needing to, after all this time. She adjusts her scarf about her neck more firmly.  Fixing her shawl so it hugs her close. 

“How’s the King?” Eliza asks in response.  Every day her mind turns itself in circles.  Over and over and over again.  She wants nothing more than to finish this now.  Before she becomes a widow at twenty-four.  Her impatience is making her irritable, and a poor conversationalist beside. 

The answer Angelica provides, however, is curious.  “He’s not well,” she says.  Echoing, knowingly or unknowingly, one of the rumors Eliza knows Mary started.  “He received word recently.  There’s a complication in the colonies.  Smaller resistance factions attempted to overthrow a British stronghold in South Carolina.  They lost, of course, but the rumors of war are starting again.  John Adams petitioned for the release of the prisoners.  Though whether that will be successful or not is up to God.  The King...has not taken the news well.  He engaged in a fit, in truth.  Lasting all the night.  Wouldn't answer any knocks on the door at all.  Refusing entry to everyone who waited.” 

Lafayette hadn’t come home last night.  Eliza bites her lip in worry.  He’s not been seen all day either.  “Do you think it’s true?” she asks, lowering her voice.  “That he really is mad?” 

Angelica doesn’t have much to say in response.  She merely shrugs.  “If he is mad...then this venture may truly be lost.  You can’t predict the unpredictable.” 

No. 

That’s not true.  Eliza’s mouth feels dry.  She’s seen that description somewhere once before.  In a letter or missive.  “Can you get in contact with someone for me?” she breathes out, feeling her heart pounding in her chest.  

“Do you need to discuss this with Adrienne?” Angelica questions.  No.  She doesn’t.  She already knows Adrienne will say yes.  She already knows that Adrienne will approve.  They’ve spent so much time in each other’s company, that this is merely one more thought.  One more idea. 

Growing like a flower in the dark.  A single sunbeam shining down upon them.  Eliza smiles.  “She will love it.” 

Angelica nods.  “I’ll see what I can do.” 


	23. Adrienne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings at end of chapter

Adrienne’s nearly asleep by the time the door opens.  She sits up in bed, squinting through the darkness as her husband stumbles in.  He’s trying to be quiet.  She can see that by how carefully he’s moving.  One foot gingerly stepping in front of the other, hesitating often.  He shuts the door slowly and near-inaudibly.  But she’s already sitting up.  Already reaching over to her bedside for a match to light her candle with. 

Gilbert’s face looks strange.  Illuminated by orange light.  He flinches away from it almost immediately.  One hand raising to shield his eyes from the glow.  “Gil…?” she asks him quietly.  He’s not intoxicated tonight.

But there’s something decidedly awkward about his posture.  About how he arches his head down and presses his lips together tightly.  He keeps his face shielded for some time, eventually turning his back to her so that he can address the buttons and ties of his shirt.  Off it goes.  Sliding from his shoulders and falling to the floor in a heap.

He’s making a mess, but Adrienne cannot bring herself to care.  She scoots forward in bed and pushes the covers back.  Slides out from underneath them.  The stone floor is cool beneath her feet, but not so cold as to demand slippers.

Approaching her husband carefully, she places a hand on his shoulder.  He stills.  Fingers hesitating around the knot of his breeches.  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he tells her quietly.  She shakes her head. 

“You didn’t,” she tells him honestly.  Letting her fingers trail down his arm.  Over across to his chest.  Scars have accumulated over his years of military service.

He used to tell her about each one so she wouldn’t worry.  Tell her so that when she sees him like this, she is prepared for their presence.  He has no new scars upon his flesh.  No new wounds that cut deep past his hide and into the thick muscle below.  But to her eyes, he seems far more scarred and wounded than any other day previously.  And she wishes he’d share these new hurts with her as well.

He hasn’t moved since she approached.  But he doesn’t seem to be in the throes of anger.  Doesn’t seem to be trying to hold anything back.  If anything, his body is a study in exhaustion.  Pure and simple.  He’s so tired it hurts to see him like this. 

Leaning forward, she presses a kiss to his lips.  Chaste.  Gone in a wink.  She doesn’t have time to react to it, nor does he have time to form an opinion.  She wants neither.  Instead, Adrienne steps around him and trails her hands to his waists.  Gilbert’s eyes close.  He breathes out through his mouth. 

_ Good.  Very good.   _ She whispers to him in their tongue.  Their language.  No need to continue speaking in English when it is just them.  Her fingertips slide up and down his skin.  Not quite massaging.  It’s too light and gentle for that.  But she knows that he’s sensitive.  Knows that he likes soft and sweet.  Likes to feel the slightest sensation tingle across his body.

His head drops forward and he breathes deep once more.

Adrienne continues her trek.  Hands sliding up and down his chest and into the space where his breeches press against his hips.  She unties the string there.  His pant slide, and she helps push them the rest of the way.

His eyes snap open and his hands wrap around each of her wrists.  The move is so startling that she winces.  Stares at him with wide eyes.  _ “Are our children safe?”  _ Gilbert asks her.  There’s something in his features.  Some strange unknowable thing that Adrienne cannot hope to understand or put to words.  But she nods.

_ “They are with their grandmother,”  _ she tells him.   _ “No one would dare harm them there.”  _ The relief she expects to come doesn’t come.  In fact, he looks only more exhausted and weary that in the scant moments prior.

Madly, Adrienne wonders what it is that King George says to him.  What drives him into such fits of concern, and leaves him little more than a walking corpse.  Dragged forward by honor and duty.   Begging her for John Laurens’ life.  Promising her that he would be worth it, please do not let George kill him.

Give him twice the ransom he requests, because John Laurens could not be allowed to die.

She’d have paid it anyway.  She’d have given him that even without his pleading.  Yet he still questions it.  Still takes care to ask again.  And again.  And again.  As if the answer will change by the day.  As if he is punishing himself with thoughts of a rejection she will never offer him. 

Adrienne rotates her wrists.  Takes him by  _ his _ hands and guides him forward.  Helps him to step out of his breeches and instead dress in the white nightshirt she’s procured for him.  His body is sagging so much that the shirt practically dwarfs his lithe frame.  She does not understand.  _  “What’s troubling you, my love?”  _ she asks him.  _ “What’s causing you so much strife?” _

He kisses her.  Lifts a hand to her cheek and kisses her lips with the tender love and affection he’d bestowed her on their wedding day.  Surrounded by loved ones, friends, and allies.  He’d kissed her lips and called her his.  He’s attempting to distract her.   _ “Tell me what it is,”  _ she commands him.

A wounded sound pulls up from his throat and he pulls away from her.  Looks her in the eye and presses his lips so tight together.  He’s upset.  But his emotions seem hardly fully-formed.  His eyes are squinted somewhat.  Lips forming a vague approximation of a smile that offer no feelings of joy or content.   _ “I must follow his orders all day, must I do it here as well? With you?” _

It’s a comment that needs no further examination.  She can furrow out the details quite nicely on her own.  However she cannot bring herself to accept his request now.   _ “I’m not ordering you, I’m trying to understand what’s wrong so I can help you.  I’m worried about you.” _

_ “I’m fine.  He cannot touch me.”  _ Gilbert says the words so quickly, so without hesitation that Adrienne falters.  Cannot help but stare at him.  Eyes wide and incredulous.  He’s refusing to meet her gaze though.  Refusing to continue this farce of a conversation.  As if he’s far more interested in the floor beneath their feet. 

Taking her hand, she cups his chin beneath her fingers.  Eases his head up so that he’s looking at her fully.   _ “You are not fine.  I have seen you fine.  I have seen you injured and wounded and recovering, and known that you were fine.  I’ve seen you miserable and managing, but known that you were fine.  I’ve seen you spending a day with my parents, and known you were fine.  This?  This is not fine my love.  You are not fine.  Your family is not fine‑-” _

_ “You said the children were safe,”  _ Gilbert accuses. He’s coiling into action suddenly.  As if he intended to march out the door and murder the King in his bed.  As if he had prepared himself for the possibility that the next Franco-English war would begin tonight. 

She snatches him back, keeping him still.   _ “They are not who I am talking about.  They  _ are  _ safe.  But your brothers, your father—”  _ Gilbert flinches at the relations.  He presses his lips so tight together that she cannot see them at all.  Her candle is running low and its weak light is not strong enough for her to inspect the lines of his face.  She can only hold onto his hand and hope that he understands her.  Hopes that he accepts that she only wishes him good.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.  _ “That family is not safe,”  _ she continues somberly.   _ “You’re afraid for them.” _

_ “John’s father stopped paying the ransom,”  _ Gilbert tells her.   But he doesn’t stop there.  With no King to take his vengeance out on, he’s determined to channel it elsewhere.   _ “His father stopped paying for his life.  The same man who stayed in the Tower of London and who we paid for with Cornwallis.  The same man who we saved and bartered for in the hopes that he could lead the colonies to a democratic victory over England.  We traded for him, and we removed him from this place, and he has stopped paying for John.” _

_ “They were not certain that John was even still alive,”  _ Adrienne tells him softly.  It’s hardly an excuse.  She had been paying for Gilbert since well before she received word from him directly.  She had received no tokens.  She had received no verification.  But she’d paid that ransom until she was able to get more information.  Until she could prove what she’d already known to be true.  Her husband was the King of England’s prisoner.

Gilbert knows just how weak the argument is as well.  He scoffs loudly.  He sniffs and pulls away from her.  Walking fiercely now.  Exhaustion set to the side temporarily as he paces the room.   _ “What kind of father does not pay for his child’s life?”  _  He stops short.  Turning to her with a face of pure and incalculable sorrow.  _  “If your enemy held Henriette in his grasp and told you he would care for her, would return her to us for a price, is there anything you would not give for our daughter?” _

His question spears through her body.  Striking her heart and sending her to her knees.  His arms shoot out to catch her.  Hold her upright.  Wrapping firmly around her body.  He squeezes her close, presses his lips to her head and leading her to the bed.  He’s apologizing.  Apologizing faster and faster.  Kissing her.  Taking her hands in his and kissing those as well.

She slaps him lightly across the cheek.   _ “Do not ever say such things again,”  _ and he accepts the rebuke with a firm nod.  A tight apology.  

_ “I only meant—”  _ Gilbert starts.

_ “—I know what you meant,”  _ Adrienne finishes.   _ “But our daughter is not a tool to win an argument.  She is not a weapon to use against me.” _

_ “I’m sorry…” _

_ “As am I.”  _ Sorrowful eyes beg for forgiveness, and Adrienne grants it. She pulls her husband backwards.  They lie together.  Arms around each-others’ bodies.  She tries to stave off tears, but pain still builds at the mere thought of their daughter’s death.  Of her hypothetical return.  He need not have put things into perspective.  She knew full well what Henry Laurens’ perspective was.  However she couldn’t justify it.

She couldn’t accept it as her own paradigm.

_ “How's John?”  _ She asks instead.  She thinks she heard that he’d been with them today.  Been permitted to fetch them their supper and give them reprieve from their tireless work around the Tower. 

_ “Angry,”  _ Gilbert replied.  Once, she’d thought that to be the standard setting for John Laurens.  She’d listened to Gilbert’s stories for years.  Knew all of John Laurens’ tales of bravery and valor.  Knew all of his far more scandalous stories as well. 

But Gilbert’s voice seems off.  His understanding of John’s behavior seems…darker.  As if the anger that filled John’s body wasn’t an anger that Gilbert was familiar with.  As if that lack of familiarity wasn’t upsetting…if anything it was intriguing.  Adrienne has no doubts that Gilbert would be far more interested in exacting revenge for their punishments.  He’d likely applaud John the whole while too.  Serving side by side with him.

Kissing her husband’s brow she leans back from him.  Inspects his face.  His anger has faded again just as quickly as it came in the first place.  But it’s sapped what little energy he has remaining in his body.  Gilbert’s eyes struggle to stay open.  His skin droops badly around his face.  He’s avoided the topic of his own pain quite well.  Navigating her from one point to another so she isn’t in a position to return to it without risking another explosion. 

Tonight’s not the time to talk about it. But they will be talking shortly.   _ “You will tell me what’s happened to you before the end of this,”  _ she tells him.  He doesn’t bother arguing.  Just nods his head and pulls her close. 

_ “Just tell me that the children are safe,”  _ he asks her.  So she tells him again.  She’ll tell him for however long he needs to hear it.  All three little ones are very safe.  And they will continue to be safe for a long time to come.

Far safer than anyone in London at the moment, at the very least.

Leaning over to blow out the candle, she snuggles back down to his chest and curls around him.  They hold each other through the night, and don’t wake up until morning.

***

Gilbert’s gone when Adrienne does eventually pull herself out of bed.  Eliza comes in, dressed in a fetching white frock that’s as bright as snow.  She’s holding another for Adrienne to wear, and hands it over with a smile. Angelica stops by as well, informing Adrienne of Angelica’s itinerary before hurrying off to attend to her husband.  Adrienne feels as though they’re circling round and round in a routine that will likely never stop.

She still as no notion of how to see Washington.  She’d made a promise to Eliza that she’d find the answer by spring.  But with the days slipping by faster and faster, she’s found she has no answer to give. Their attempts at gathering information have been slow. Languid.  Careful.  Not well suited for a deadline, and yet their story continues on in dreary repetition.  

Adrienne ties her hair into position.  Powdering it lightly as she goes.  She clips a string of pearls through her bangs.  Watching her reflection in the mirror the whole while.  She’s tempted to talk to Eliza about her husband.  Ask her if Gilbert’s behavior seemed strange to her as well.  But Eliza’s struggling to come to terms with her own husband’s behavior.

Struggling to accept that Alexander has been avoiding her with the kind of steadfast determination of an adulterer or scoundrel.  “He’s suffered, Mrs. Hamilton,” Adrienne tells her softly, catching Eliza’s weary expression in the reflection of her mirror.  The older woman’s smile is brittle.  Her posture exhausted.

“I don’t know how much,” Eliza replies. 

“Sometimes it is not in our best interest to know such things,” Adrienne counsels.  “And…sometimes it is not in  _ their _ best interest to tell us such things.”  Her friend smiles faintly.  “That doesn’t mean we don’t keep looking for signs how to help.  It merely means we need to exact more patience to the situation.  Men,” Adrienne decrees.  “Are the more foolish of the genders.”

Eliza’s lips twitch into a slight smile, and it gladdens Adrienne’s heart to see it.  She reaches for the other woman’s hand.  Squeezes it firm.  “They will be safe,” Adrienne tells her.  If she has to petition Louis herself, she will do so.  She will bring him proof of how horrible the conditions of the political prisoners are.  She will tell him what’s been done to Gilbert, and she will set things right.

But for now, Louis will not go to war over a few American colonists who were being harshly treated in the aftermath of a revolution turned wrong.  Something more must be given to him.  Some benefit to the idea.  Until she can find that benefit, then they must remain vigilant.  Quiet. 

Standing from her chair, she collects her scarf and shawl, requesting once more for Eliza to don her own as they prepare for the walk to St. James’ Palace.  There’s a storm on the horizon.  But it’s waiting.  The rain hasn’t started yet. 

Adrienne loops her arm around Eliza’s.  They stroll together, appearing as naturally as any woman and her aide.  She entertains herself with looking at alleyways and imagining their destinations.  She inspects the guards they pass and counts the kingsmen who patrol the streets.  Loyalists and Revolutionaries in hiding.  There are some of each kind, and Adrienne intends to classify each one she sees. 

They’re nearly at the Palace when Adrienne hears her name being called.  Rushed and desperate.  Adrienne turns her head, frowning as Mary comes racing toward them.  Hands in her skirt and lifting it up so she can run as fast as she can.  Her face is flushed.  Hair out of place.  She’s out of breath.  Heaving as she approaches.

“You need to go to the Tower,” Mary gasps.  “Now.”

“What?”  Eliza breathes out, blinking rapidly.  “Why—”

Adrienne has no interest in waiting for why.  She throws her arm out to the street, scarf billowing as she summons the first carriage that she sees.  “To the Tower,” she orders firmly, tossing a coin at the driver.  “As quick as you can.”  Pulling open the door herself, she ushers the women inside with her.  Immediately the reins slap against the horses necks and they’re off.  Pulling out into the street and hurtling into the correct direction.  “Did you run all the way here?”  Adrienne asks. 

She pulls her handkerchief from her bosom and hands it to the poor woman.  Mary takes it, dabbing her face and neck to push away some of the sweat that’s accumulated. “Aye, my lady,” Mary agrees.  She makes a haphazard attempt at fixing her hair, but her fingers are trembling too much to manage.

Eliza takes over, pulling the tie from her locks and sweeping the loose strands back into an appropriate braid.  She’s quick about it.  Years of practice teaching her how to move swift and precise.  “Whatever is the matter?”  Eliza asks, though her eyes are wide and nervous.  She finishes the braid and takes Mary's hand in hers.  Squeezing it for support even as she looks to Adrienne.

Fear is building in her body.  Adrienne’s certain she’s never seen Martha Manning Laurens ever look afraid.  She’s been bold and courageous, uncertain and tepid, but never afraid.  They’ve been playing this game for half a year already, and  _ she’s  _ been doing so for far longer.  Yet Mary still looks terrified.

“It’s our fool husbands,” Mary tells her. “They decided to breed those blasted ravens.”  Eliza’s face takes on an impressive shape.  Her eyes squint and her nose scrunches up, the corners of her mouth seem to twist in entirely opposite directions.  Head tilting to the side.  She has no idea what Mary's talking about.

Adrienne does.  “The…Tower of London ravens?  They…bred them?”  She’s not entirely sure why it’d be a problem all things considered.  The British were absurd about those ridiculous ravens.  The more the merrier seemed perfectly acceptable to her.

“The Ravenmaster gave Alexander explicit instructions that if he happened upon any eggs they were to be immediately turned over to him for destruction.” 

_ Good God, they weren’t all getting up and arms about raven eggs were they? _ Adrienne gaped at Mary, and the older woman just kept on.

“He and John decided that that wasn’t  _ fair,  _ and so they took it upon themselves to make a nest for the fool birds.”

“They had chicks?” Eliza surmised. “It’s still winter yet.”  Spring may be looming, but it’s too early for chicks.  

But Mary nods regardless.  Peering out the window to see how far they have to go.  “The hutch—they’ve kept it warm enough for the eggs to hatch.  I don’t know how.  Coals or some sort. Tucked into a crevasse they created.  They had food a plenty for the birds to feed the chicks.  They were  _ hatching  _ the little vermin on purpose!” 

Following Mary’s lead, Adrienne looks out the window.  Almost there.  Only a short way away and then they’ll be in the Tower. “And there’s  _ three _ of them.”

Distantly, Adrienne thinks she can hear the sound of someone screaming.  Though she cannot accurately decide if it’s real or a fantasy she's conjured as they draw closer to the Tower.  Her hands squeeze into the folds of her dress.  “What’s the problem?” she asks stonily.

“They  _ like  _ the birds.  And they’re not meant to like their jobs.”  The absurdity of it all keeps striking Adrienne over and over.  They’re not talking about anything particularly insipid.  They’re not talking about anything dangerous or unusual.  It’s birds.  Birds and bird tending, and as long as no harm comes to Britain’s six sacred ravens what does it matter if more birds are bred?  “King George ordered the fledglings to be killed.”

Adrienne half wonders if she’s dreaming through this conversation.  If she’s still asleep in bed with her husband.  Months of planning and careful organization, and they were drawing into conflict  _ now  _ over a set of chicks? “What?” it’s the only question she knows how to ask. 

“His advisors immediately told him that he couldn’t kill Tower ravens, John started arguing, then Alex picked up the birds and wouldn’t let them go, and the King told them if they didn’t give the birds up they’d both be flogged.”

To her left, Eliza’s face has gone as white as her dress.  She lifts a hand to her lips.  Horror washing away the confusion she’d felt only moments before.  The carriage comes to a stop, and Adrienne pushes open the door.  She flicks another coin at the man and pulls up her skirt in hand to hurry across the moat’s bridge and into the Tower proper.

She can hear the screaming very well now.  But it’s not screams of pain.  It’s arguing.  Shouting.   _ Gilbert!  _  She can hear his voice rising above the chaos.  Eliza and Mary are at her heels, and she runs faster.  Pushing through the crowd of people— _ why  _ are there so many people here today?  She doesn’t think she’s ever seen this many people in the Tower grounds themselves, but here they all are.  Collecting like vultures over carrion. 

Servants and lords alike.  Word must have gotten around, just like Mary's message to them had.  Everyone was descending to the Tower. Anxious and excited to see what’s happening for themselves.

The ravens, all seven adult birds, are in sight.  Some circling about overhead or perched on nearby posts.  Two are in the center of it all.  Cawing loudly.  Angrily.  Their adult caws offset by the higher pitched screeches of fledglings.

Adrienne finally breaks through to the front of the crowd, and she sees Alexander standing behind John.  He’s covered in sweat and grime.  His hair is plastered to his face.  There’s blood slipping down one of his cheeks.  He looks like he’s been dragged through the mud.  Bruises are winding around his wrists and a black eye is forming.

In front of him, John is faring little better.  In fact, Eliza needs to hold onto Mary's arm, because it’s become abundantly clear that someone _has_ whipped John.  He’s standing on his own two feet, but only by sheer force of his intransigent will.  His shirt’s been torn and there are bloody gashes cresting from hip to shoulder.  Crisscrossing left and right.

The whip in question is lying curled on the ground by Gilbert’s feet, and not far away from  _ him _ is an unconscious man.  He's clearly a member of King George’s retinue, but he’s been thrashed soundly.  Blood smears his hair, and from the twisted angle of one of his arms—Gilbert had not been kind.

King George is almost toe to toe with Gilbert.  His eyes are flashing with fury and he’s  _ shouting  _ at Gilbert.  It’s quite possibly the most immature thing Adrienne’s ever seen in her life. When she looks up—Washington is watching from his window.

He’s squared his shoulders and pressing as close to it as he can.  Adrienne does not doubt he would fly down to them himself if he could.  Join the fray and engage in violence if only he had a chance.  As it stands, he’s trapped up there.  World spinning brutally without him.

“How  _ dare  _ you disobey me!” George screams.  He’s inches away from slapping Gilbert.  Adrienne can see it from here.  

He’s going to strike Gilbert, and Gilbert shows no signs of backing off.  Of apologizing.  If anything, he seems absurdly antagonistic about the whole thing.  “I didn’t disobey you, _ your grace. _  You challenged me to stop it, so I stopped it.” 

Eliza’s asking one of the onlookers what happened, and Adrienne’s feels her stomach drop upon his words.  George had ordered his man to whip John for interfering, and Gilbert had begged for mercy.  The King had informed him if he could stop the soldier on his own, then no more lashes would fall upon John’s back.  The King clearly hadn’t expected Gilbert to succeed. 

At some point in the chaos, the King had then decided to execute the birds himself.  Gilbert had snatched the nearest fledgling into his arms and now there they stood.  Toe to toe, one half full of raging fury while the other held his position in a desperate attempt to protect those he cared for.

The bird in Gilbert’s arms cries loudly for its mother or father.  The two adult ravens hop uselessly between everyone.  Looking from person to person as helpless as any bird is.  There is nothing they can do.  “I would make a wish,” Gilbert requests of the king.  Protecting the small bird with his body.

_ “You?”  _ George hollers.   _ “You have no say here!”  _ He screams the words so loudly that Adrienne’s ears ring. 

“They’re ravens of the Tower, your grace,” Gilbert continues on without stopping.  “Killing them now would bring destruction to your house, those are what the legends say.  That is  _ your  _ history!”

“And you’re concerned with saving my house from ruin?” George shouts hatefully. 

“Of course I am, your grace,” Gilbert replies.  “I live and work in the service of  _ the Crown.   _ If there is no Crown, then my comrades and I have no protection.”

Silence fills the courtyard.  George appears so taken aback by Gilbert’s determination that even the people have snapped their mouths shut to listen. Alexander and John are standing awkwardly.  One of the ravens has fluttered to sit on Alexander’s shoulder.  Knox.  It draws George’s gaze and his nose scrunches as his face turns red with anger.  “You want your wish granted,  _ boy?”  _ he growls out.

“I want the birds and my men unharmed, your majesty.”  The fledgling in Gilbert’s arm starts struggling with earnest.  Pecking at his wrist and scratching with its talons.  But Gilbert doesn’t release it.  He just stands still.  Waiting for judgment.

“And I want those birds wings snapped, and them to be left for dead,” King George replies. He leans down, voice lowering down to a level matched only by the deepest pits of hell.  “Are you willing to take their place?  For some  _ birds?  _ For some  _ traitors?” _

Adrienne shakes her head.  She tries to step forward, but she’s pulled back.  She doesn’t see who by.  Only that she’s not permitted to approach.  To interfere.  To stop this madness from going proceeding.  She hears John call her husband’s name.  Sees Alexander look ready to collapse as the realization comes through.  It does nothing to stop her husband from nodding his head.  No hesitation.  No moment to think about it.

He turns on his heel and walks to John.  Presses the young raven into John’s arm, and then returns.  Returns to stand in front of George with no fear or shame or doubt.  Two of George’s advisors are quietly whispering to him.  Adrienne cannot hear them, but from their furtive expressions they are not happy.  George ignores them all.

He reaches a hand out and snatches Gilbert’s shirt in a closed fist.  Drags him forward, toward a wooden fence that separates various walkways.  Adrienne pulls free from whomever held her.  Gilbert’s shoved onto his knees.  One arm draped over the wood.  George shouts for one of his men to step forward.  He has a club.

“No!” Adrienne shouts, Gilbert’s head moves.  He tries to look back at her.  But he cannot quite manage the angle.  

George is pushing for him to admit that he’s changed his mind.  Taunting him in the hopes that he’ll respond in the affirmative. Asking over and over if he’s sure, and Gilbert is only telling him he doesn’t want the birds hurt.   _ “It’s for your crown,”  _ Gilbert digs in. 

The advisors are talking faster now.  Trying desperately to put an end to all of this.   _ It’s just a few birds,  _ Adrienne thinks.  Lifting her hands to her mouth.  She cannot believe what she’s seeing.  She cannot believe that this is real. 

Eliza circles in front of her.  Takes her hands in her own, and squeezes them tight.  “Don’t watch this,” Eliza begs.  But how can she not?  Adrienne stares at her husband.  The King.  She commits every part of this to memory.  Her heart thunders fast in her chest. 

The club raises.  The King steps to the side.  It falls. 

Gilbert, for all of his strength, screams.  His knees collapse beneath him, but the King’s bodyman hauls him back.  Strikes the same arm twice more until the limb is firmly broken.  Until the King waves his hand for it all to stop.

George looks as though he’s seen a ghost.  As if he cannot believe what has just taken place any more than the rest of them can.  He turns his head, and looks out amongst the crowd of people.  Toward John and Alexander standing motionless, pale, bloodstained, and shaking badly.  Toward his advisors that are all teetering uselessly in position.  Toward Adrienne herself.

She glares at him.  Back straightening and nose scrunching.  She strides forward, and he does not tell her to stop.  “The King of France will hear of this,” she threatens boldly.

“It will not happen again,” he replies immediately.  He glances at Gilbert, clearly uncomfortable.  Clearly not sure how to proceed.  He hadn’t thought Gilbert would actually do it.  Hadn’t thought that he’d actually push it to that extent.

He clearly had no idea who her husband was.  He clearly had no concept of what his loyalties were and who they were to.  Her husband was never going to back down once he’d made his decision, and George had been a fool to give him such power.

“I have your word?” she snaps, head held high.  It’s taking everything within her to stand here and address this  _ fool  _ before attending to her husband.

“The birds…are to remain unharmed.  Cared for by the Ravenmaster with their parents.  Until such time they decide to leave…”

“And his men?” Adrienne presses.  George seems more and more ready to vomit right here in the courtyard.  The consequences of his actions piling immediately and with no concern for his own tender heart.

“Laurens and the bastard—”

“— _ and Washington, _ ” Adrienne insists. 

The King nods.  “And Washington, will never again find harm in this Tower.”

“Then I have you at your word, sir.  And I will be  _ thorough  _ in ensuring it’s kept.”

The people are talking amongst themselves, rumors spreading by the second.  There will be no way to silence this.  Gilbert slides to his knees from the fence post.  He curls around his broken arm.  Adrienne knows full well— the limb will never set right.  It will cost him his sword arm for the rest of his life.  

Adrienne hurries to her husband’s side.  Kneels there and takes his face between her palms.  Sweat and tears stain his cheeks, but she sees what no one else will.  A small, faint, and twinkling glimmer of satisfaction. _Damn him to hell,_ she thinks as she pulls him to her chest like any sobbing wife should.  He whispers in her ear.   _ “You have access to the Tower, my lady.” _

He hadn't given her time to find another solution.  Someone was always going to be hurt.  But when Adrienne looks at George, she knows it’s true.  The King wouldn’t dare keep her out.  Not when she could tell the King Louis everything that happened here today. 

For the first time since she stepped foot in the Tower—all of the ravens are silent.

And hidden from all the world to see, she can feel her husband smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of Child Death - the Lafayette's lost their first daughter, Henriette, young. It's been mentioned before. It's mentioned more now.


	24. Mary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings at the end

“You  _ bloody  _ idiot!” Mary shouts.  She’s slapped John once already, and she’s going to slap him again.  He’d been a useless lump since they’d been shepherded back into Adrienne’s quarters, the King not bothering to tell them no.  He and Alex had numbly brought the fledglings back to their nest, and all the ravens crowded around the birds before they left to Adrienne’s domicile. 

The Marquise commanded a carriage come to take both men and her husband to her apartments.  She ordered a doctor to come as well.  The man hurried over and immediately began treating Lafayette’s arm in their room.  Mary hadn’t seen either part of the french couple since.  She doubted she would.  

Lafayette may have been perfectly content to have his arm broken over a set of birds, but it hadn’t left him without pain.  He’d been nearly unconscious by the time he’d dragged himself up the stairs.  Fever already setting in.  He’ll be lucky if he manages to keep that arm.  

Members of Adrienne’s entourage were already drafting letters and summoning sending them out to the post. King Louis would hear about this event by week’s end.  They’ll have a reply not long after.  George had overstepped, and he  _ knew  _ it.  But all that would result in this was Lafayette getting a golden pass to freedom.  He’d be sent back to France with his concerned wife, appeasing Louis and damning the rest of his comrades. 

Adrienne may have temporary custody of three members of their party, and permission to visit the fourth, but it wouldn’t last.  “How could you be so stupid?” Mary snaps at her husband.  He’s said nothing to defend himself.  Just staring in the general direction of the Lafayettes.  One hand rubbing at his throat.  She’s going to hit him again.  

Pierre stops her.  He places a hand on her shoulder and gently guides her backwards. “Perhaps I should see to Mr. Laurens’ back?” he asks rhetorically.  Already placing himself between her and her husband.  His hands are unlacing the ties at John’s shirt front.  Moving to slide it up and over John’s head.  John barely assists Pierre in his ministrations. 

It’s like something has pulled his ghost from his body.  Leaving behind a shell of a man.  He’s useless.  At least Alexander is holding onto Eliza’s hands.  Answering her questions.  Allowing her to tend to his wounds and responding when prompted.  He’s at least  _ doing  _ something. 

But John stands there like a statue.  Completely unaware that she’s struck him or that Pierre is starting to address the bloody result of George’s whip.  John’s pushed, pulled, and prodded until he is sitting on a stool Pierre has fetched.  His back to the room.  His head hangs down.  Too short hair stubbly and awkward upon his head.  

There’s blood smearing across his flesh.  Little droplets still run down into his breeches.  He’d likely bled on the cushions of the carriage.  They hadn’t tipped the man nearly enough for his haste.  Adrienne will certainly settle such matters later.  

“How could you be so stupid?”  Mary asks again.   She has no idea where this kind of behaviour comes from, but he’s always had an uncompromising willfulness.  Completely incapable of appropriate thought.  Jumping headlong into one mess after another.  He ran away to fight for the colonies before their daughter had ever been born, and he lost a war he had no business fighting.  He infuriated a King who delighted in doling out punishments that John should have feared.  He risked his, and Alexander’s, and Lafayette’s lives for a set of  _ birds.   _ And now their escape plan might well and truly be ruined. 

How long before Louis’ ship arrives?  How many more days do they have left to plan and set everything up?  “I don’t believe that’s helping, Mrs. Laurens,” Pierre tells her as he presses a cool cloth to John’s flushed skin.  

John doesn’t so much as react.  Just keep staring at the ground.  

“We’re so close to setting this plan in motion and yet we are now may be stimied because of  _ this?”  _

“We couldn’t let the birds die,” Alexander tells her stiffly.  His voice is so quiet he might as well not have spoken.  Mary whirls about to glare at him. 

“The birds, or your freedom?  Tell me Mr. Hamilton, what precisely is more important to you?” 

“We had no way of getting into the tower before,” Alexander snaps back.  It’s more fight and fury than anyone has seen from him in a while.  For a man who’d damn near been mute since they’d arrived, it’s a startling change of pace.  She wondered how many lashes John had received because Alexander had been arguing for a few  _ birds. _  She wondered if he’d receive a new gag for his troubles. 

Eliza’s looking at her husband like she’s about to start crying.  Relief overshadowing everything.  All three of their loved ones have been brutalized, and yet  _ she’s happy Alexander found his voice,  _ Mary's going to scream if this continues one moment longer.  Particularly since his voice came at the expense of John’s. 

Pierre continues cleaning John’s back, and he calls for one of Adrienne’s staff to fetch him some threat and a needle.  He’ll need to sew some of the wounds together.  His back is so deeply split.  He’d had scars prior, but now these fresh wounds sit deep and horrible upon him.  He used to be a force to be reckoned with.  A brilliant man with fierce convictions and even more fierce reactions. 

He’d fight for his beliefs and he’d do it with pride.  He’d mind his father and do as he was asked, but he did so with such passion.  Such strength of character.  He loved fierce and hot.  And while he may never have loved  _ her,  _ she’d seen what love looked like on him.  Seeing him now, like this?  It makes her uncomfortable. 

Mary isn’t sure she’s ever seen a man fall so far from grace.  She doesn’t think she’s ever been there to see someone struggle like he’s struggled.  She’s never seen him look so defeated.  Even the night he and Francis had officially ended their relations forever, he had never looked  _ defeated.   _ He’d been angry.  Furious.  Ready to get what he wanted.  Ready to prove that he wasn’t suffering from perversions. 

He could be a true man. 

He’d  _ been  _ a true man.  True enough to get her pregnant.  Truer still, to marry her and keep her from public shame.  She owed him much for that. Owed him more than she could say.  Love never factored into their relationship.  She knew he’d never loved her.  But she had loved him for what he’d done that day.  

She’s finding it hard to love him now.  She’s finding hard to justify any of this.  Mary has worked for months to help find a way to save his soul, to give him comfort, and now right at the end—he’s squandered everything. 

“We had no way to get into the tower,” Alexander repeats.  He takes a deep breath.  Squeezes Eliza’s hand.  Mary can see how his fingers are white around hers.  Can see how he’s trembling to stand.  His dutiful wife pushes him into a chair in hopes of making it better, but it doesn’t stop the shaking.  Doesn’t stop the adrenaline from sliding through his body and making ripples of fading emotion trail through him.  “Adrienne has it now.” 

“It doesn’t  _ matter,”  _ Mary replies fiercely.  

The door opens, and everyone falls silent.  Martha Washington strides in, Angelica on her heels.  Both look distraught.  They’re slightly out of breath.  Skirts in hand.  Immediately they look to John and Alexander.  Anglica flies to Alexander’s side, arms wrapping around his throat.  He seems liable to jump out of his skin, but he does snake an arm around his sister-by-law’s body.  

Martha turns to John.  Her lips press into a tight light.  “John,” she says firmly.  His head rises.  Looks to face her.  His expression is a lesson in emotionless vaguity.  He is a mask of nothing.  He is as interesting as the wall behind him.  “It is not your fault,” she tells him. 

The mask breaks.  

Tears fill Mary's husband’s eyes, and Mary cannot help but stare at the sudden response.  How his lips tremble and his shoulders hitch.  How Pierre finishes washing his back, and then must tell him to steady.  Steady and be calm.  “Someone fetch me some whisky,” Pierre calls shortly. 

It’s brought to him almost immediately.  Martha crosses the room and kneels before John.  He’s still looking at her like she’s walking on gold.  Her dress fans out around her body.  Her plump form is awkwardly shaped.  Her cheeks are flushed from her run.  Her hair is out of sorts.  It hangs in strands around her cheeks. 

But she looks at John with the same expression Mary's seen her own mother provide.  She looks to John as though he were a young boy in need of consoling.  Accepting no blame from him.  Providing no fury nor enabling any kind of self-recrimination. “It’s not your fault,” Martha tells John again. 

She takes his hands in hers and she holds them close.  His head bows and rests on her shoulder.  A son seeking his mother’s warmth.  A desperate plea for assistance that Mary never thought to give him.  Never thought she needed to provide.  She stands there and she looks at John and she is shocked by his reaction. 

Shocked as he actually lets out a long hitching breath.  He’s crying now.  Crying subtly and without care to the work Pierre is doing on his back.  Martha accepts the bottle of whisky that’s been hurried to them, and she presses it into John’s hands.  “You’ll want to drink it all.  There’s a good boy.” 

John does drink it.  He drinks it in several deep swallows.  Gulping it down without even taking care to note it’s brand or location.  From the label, it’s a fairly pricy liquor.  Something that Mary knows she could never afford on her own.  

From her recollection, John enjoyed drinking.  Enjoyed the taste of it and sharing with his friends.  He always became flirty when drunk.  Touching others and nestling his head into their shoulders.  He wanted companionship and warm embraces.  He wanted a body to lay with. 

Even if it wasn’t Francis’.  Even if it was a woman’s.  

He drank and didn’t stop drinking until nearly half the bottle was gone.  Then he coughed and set it to the side.  Tears still streaming down his face.  He held onto Martha’s shoulder.  Bracing himself as he tried to breathe properly.  His other hand held out the bottle toward Alexander who takes it without question.  Finishing it off in quick form and holding the empty container in silence. 

His natural arguments have fell into obscurity once more.  Mary can hear Angelica and Eliza attempting to prod him for answers, but he doesn’t give them.  Just shakes or nods his head as he looks to John and waits for Pierre to be finished. 

The first slide of a needle through John’s back sends John forward.  He hisses and grits his teeth, and Pierre sighs.  “Get on the floor,” he commands John.  “You cannot sit up for this.”

“You couldn't have had him do that from the start?” Mary asked sharply. 

“I had thought, _perhaps,_ he would feel more comfortable without being pinned on the ground,” Pierre snaps back.  “But there is no way for me to do this while he is in this condition.  He will need to lay prone.” 

John doesn’t move.  Just stares at the floor as if it might well turn into the gateway to hell.  “I’ll be still,” John tells Pierre.  

_ So he can speak,  _ Mary thinks spitefully.   _ Good to know.  _

Her husband licks his lips, “Do it again.” 

Martha Washington shakes her head.  Holds John’s hand tightly.  She commands such presence and dedication for a woman her size.  “John—”

“I’ll be fine.” Of course he will.  

Of course he will. 

Alexander stands up slowly.  Chair scooting back from behind him.  Angelica and Eliza both hold onto his arms, confirming he has his footing before letting him walk forward.  He whispers something quiet to Martha, and the older woman stands.  Releasing John’s hands before examining Alexander shrewdly.  She gives him a careful hug, before stepping to the side and allowing Alexander to take her place. 

Mary cannot hear what Alexander tells John.  Even standing as close as she is, she cannot make out what Alexander whispers into John’s ear.  She can only observe.  Take in the gentle way Alexander presses a kiss to her husband’s temple.  How John’s arm wrap around Alexander’s body.  

“Do it,” Alexander tells Pierre.  His voice little more than a breathy cry.  Pierre nods and starts sliding the needle through the flesh of John’s back once more .  It pierces through John’s skin, and he hisses.  Squeezing Alexander so tight that Mary have wonders if he’ll be adding more bruises to Alexander’s battered body. 

But Alexander holds firm.  His hands grip on either side of John’s waist.  His head rests against John’s.  Both of them clinging to each other like they only have tonight and nothing else will be the same if they’re not there for each other.  

Mary doesn’t think she’s ever seen anything quite like it.  Particularly not from her husband.  Not from the man who had been so desperate to prove to the world he wasn’t what his father always thought he was.  Not from the man who thrashed and despaired and fought anything that came before him. 

He holds onto Alexander like Alexander can fight the battles for him, and Alexander lets John do it.  Lets John cling to him like a frightened child.  Lets him find comfort in his body.  The needle slides in and out of John’s back, and the lines on his flesh close.  The wounds are tended to.  The blood stops seeping down his skin. 

As he works, Pierre calls for food and water to be brought.  He orders a bed to be made up for John.  He makes each request while his mind is fully devoted to his task.  The stitches are neat and carefully organized.  Almost elegant. 

It takes several minutes for Pierre to finish.  When he’s done, he gently cleans John’s back once more.  Hands him another bottle of whiskey and tells him to drink it and sleep off the agony he must be facing.  “Are you in much pain?” Pierre asks Alexander. 

He shakes his head.  Helps John to his feet.  Tilts his head inquisitively, and one of Adrienne’s servants quickly leads him to the room they’ve prepared.  Mary feels like a voyeur as she follows them.  Watching as Alexander eases John into the bed and crawls in front of him.  Letting John wrap his arms around his body.  

“I’m scared I won’t be able to save you,” Mary tells them both, though she really means it for John alone.  But there is no John without Alexander.  They are a set.  A group made whole with Lafayette.  

They talk to each other and understand each other without the need for words or gestures.  “I know,” John murmurs into Alexander’s back.  He doesn’t look up at her.  Doesn’t rise.  His voice is slurred.  Exhausted.  

“Mary…” Eliza whispers, and she knows she should go.  But she steps forward one last time.  Leans over Alex to kiss her husband’s brow.  Murmur a soft apology before fleeing.  He doesn’t respond. 

Closing the door behind her, Mary looks at the various parties throughout the room.  “What are we going to do?” 

“How long do we have before King Louis insists that King George return Lafayette to France?” Martha asks Pierre.  The man is busy washing his hands in a bucket of water.  Rubbing off the excess blood with a cloth.  He takes his time replying. 

“There will be a few days of back and forth, but with news such as this...the request will come quickly.  Gilbert is a favorite son of France, our King will not allow this to stand.  George will have only a short time before he will be forced into compliance.  And he  _ will  _ return Lafayette.  Of that, now I have little doubt.” 

“So a week at best,” Angelica surmises.  

He nods.  “Yes, that seems accurate.” 

One week.  One week to formulate a plan in getting Washington from the tower.  In getting both John and Alexander beyond George’s control.  In securing Lafayette.  Even if Adrienne has access to the Tower, how can she remove Washington?  Mary posts her question to the room.  Moving forward to sit in the chair John abandoned.  Her hands twisting into themselves. 

“Alexander and John should be easy enough to manage,” Eliza murmurs.  She brings her fingers to her mouth.  Bending her knuckles so they rest against her lips.  She’s quiet.  Thoughtful.  “Adrienne can insist that they submit for review here.  George has already allowed them to stay the night now.  It is feasible that we could secure them here, then smuggle them out in the future. 

Mary is shaking her head, though.  “It leaves Washington, and none of them will leave without him.” 

“But if we  _ can  _ get them here,” Angelica offers, “Then we can manage to smuggle them out of the city and onto Lafayette’s ship back to France.  George will not suspect a ship already here for such purposes.”

“He will,” Pierre replies.  “He absolutely will.  If all four of them disappear at once, then that ship will be the most scrutinized ship in the fleet.”

“We can use that.”  Adrienne.  The room turns in unison.  All faces and bodies shift to look at her.  She’s standing at the doorway to the study, back straight and eyes flinty with steel.  She looks exhausted.  As if she’s been aged years.  Despite being the youngest of all of them, Adrienne looks as though she’s commanded a room all her life. 

As though she’s dictated to soldiers and men of all ages.  As though she’s led her people into battle and is more than prepared to do so again and again.  Mary envisions her standing on the bow of a ship, the Captain of a royal navy.  She can see Adrienne on horseback leading the war effort and slaughtering British men by the thousand. 

Of all those who travelled to fight the war in the Colonies, Mary thinks that the colonists were far worse off without Adrienne at their sides.  In their midst.  Managing turmoil and strife without so much as a moment of hesitation or deliberation.  She accepts what has been presented before her and she goes for it.  She sees the playing board, and she manages all the pieces on both sides. 

“King George knows that Louis will be sending a ship for Gilbert’s return to France.  He and his retinue will be closely monitoring us at all times to ensure that we follow proper procedures and leave without qualm.” Adrienne walks deeper into the room.  Hands folded in front of her. 

She makes no promise in regards to her husband’s broken arm.  His traumatized physique or how weak he must be.  He’ll be mutilated for the rest of his life.  He will never have the opportunity to fight as he once did.  When he returns home, he will have to retire his life as a soldier.  His time on the battlefield is over. 

“On this ship, we must all be present.  For if even one of us is not, it will cause suspicion.” 

“What do you mean?” Eliza asks.  “If we rescue Alexander and—”

“—Then they will not be on the ship with us.”  Mary feels her body turn cold at the mere notion.  “Our ship will be searched, our people questioned.  But George cannot keep us in his harbor without just cause.  He cannot force us into submission.  He cannot aim his guns at us and fire.  Once we are on that ship, we are under sovereign protection.  George will not be able to stop us from leaving.”

“And so we leave them all behind?” Mary asks. 

“No.  George will know we will have been responsible for saving Alexander and the others.  He will know that we have been involved.  He will target our ship and follow us, whether we are in the harbor or on the shore.  Our job is merely to cross the channel, and get to France.  He will undoubtedly follow us, and while he is following us…”

“...he’s not following  _ them,”  _ Angelica murmurs. Her hand lifts to her mouth.  Hiding a smile. 

Adrienne nods. “He’ll spend his time questioning us, tearing our ship apart.  He will ask us questions, he will interview us.  He will find nothing, because there is nothing to find.  We will not have Alexander or John or Washington on our vessel.  They will be far away and there will be nothing that he can do to stop it.” 

Mary's quite certain she’s never seen someone hatch a plot such as this.  Never seen the inner workings of a mind turned more clever than all the rest.  Adrienne delivers each statement with a calming cool.  Her voice is inflectionless, but her eyes are burning bright.  She’s furious, and it shows with such subtlety that Mary wishes she had some of Adrienne’s restrained.  “How’s Lafayette?” Mary asks. 

“My husband will live,” Adrienne responds crisply.  “And I have every intention of seeing his mutilation punished.  I will arrange for a second ship to take your dearly beloveds to safety.  You will not be able to travel with them, but we will establish the reunion at a later date.  This plan provide for their safe and uninterrupted flight.”

“More than that,” Pierre adds.  “It will alleviate any implications against King Louis.  If your vessel does not hold the traitors…”

“Then Louis cannot be blamed for their escape.  That is solely on  _ them.  _  As  _ we  _ are innocent,” Adrienne agrees.  “I’ll arrange for the ships.  You,” Adrienne says to Martha and Angelica, “will need to consider which distraction you deem fit for the King to suffer through.  When the time comes, we will need all the help his...lack of punctuality will provide.” 

Both women nod.  Eager and willing to take up their task.  Mary cannot help herself.  She watches Adrienne work, and she thinks for the first time: they’re really going to get through all of this. 

They’re going to save their loved ones. 

And it’s going to work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary expresses very faint period typical homophobia in regards to John and Alex's relationship.


	25. Angelica

King George does not return to court.  Lord North organizes the parliament meetings, he leads them without the King’s involvement, and politics prevail.  All around, Lords and Ladies and servants alike discuss Lafayette.  What happened.  What’s going to happen.  There had only been one rule in the capture of the colonial army’s leaders.  Don’t hurt the Marquis. 

That rule has been broken. 

Pierre engages in negotiations with Lord North, and he does so loudly.  Everyone is uncomfortable by it.  Their dissatisfaction growing by the minute.  Letters are being sent back and forth, missives from King Louis to Parliament and back.  They were right, Anglica thinks as she listens to Pierre’s request, Louis wants the Lafayette’s back in France.  Say no, and there will be a war. 

North doesn’t say no.

He starts organizing emissaries of his own.  Those who had always been friendly with the French that could help behoove them to forgive and forget.  Shockingly, he chooses John Church as one such emissary.  The timing couldn’t be more ideal.  A swell of relief courses through Angelica’s veins as he explains his new mission to her.  Travel to France and attempt to improve trade negotiations, smoothe as many ruffled feathers as he can, and remind the French that the British have been their closest trading partner for years.  

Their two countries may never have  _ entirely gotten along,  _ an understatement that has Angelica rolling her eyes, but they’re too close to completely ignore.  They don’t need another war.  The last one was enough.  For now. 

For her part, Queen Charlotte seems almost lost with all the comings and goings of court.  Lords and Ladies are slipping away like sand in a too tight grip.  Falling out of line and fleeing.  Rumors are growing.   _ The madness of King George,  _ here on display.  She’s trying her best to play the stoic, but Angelica doesn’t think she’s ever seen the Queen so uncomfortable.  Even their teas and gatherings have been affected. 

Adrienne no longer attends, and her absence is obviously missed.  It is, Angelica considers, a kind of warfare in its own way.  

Winter snow still sits upon the ground, and Angelica leaves court to make her way to Adrienne’s home.  She’s been busy.  Every day sees her attending to her husband, dabbing a cool cloth to his brow and talking to him quietly in French.  When she breaks from that interaction, she is sitting at her desk.  Drafting plans.  Sketching lightly.  Once, Angelica came upon her as she played a game of chess in the dark.  Illuminated only by a small candle’s fire.  There was no other opponent to face her, but the board was in Check.  Checkmate in five. 

“Lady Church!” her feet slow.  “Ms. Schuyler!” She stops.  Turning to track the voice, she falters.  Thomas Jefferson.  And John Adams too.  Both without their escorts, though with everything else happening, she doubts that anyone would be foolish enough to harm either man.  

They’re slightly out of breath, hurrying to come to her side.  They bow low and dignified and she inspects their appearance.  Both dressed in muted greys and browns.  “Sirs,” she dips her head politely.  They should not be talking in public. 

For the first time, though, no one stops to look.  No one stares.  “Judging by your direction,” Jefferson starts, “You are on your way to the Marquise?” 

“Yes,” she agrees.  By now there is no hiding her affiliation with the woman.  Any attempts at subtlety were lost once King George became aware of their connection.  There’s no use in ignoring the obvious. 

“We’d very much like to discuss with her the current events of our times.  Would you escort us and provide an introduction?”  For a moment, Angelica truly considers whether or not Thomas Jefferson believes she’s a fool.  Their interactions and flirtations in the past had been humorous and engaging, but they had nevertheless been colored by his opinion on the craftiness of women’s minds. 

He’d long maintained that the fairer sex held no presence in politics, and that their presence served primarily as a distraction.  Yet here he was, begging her for her assistance, and assuming that she’s daft enough to permit such an audience.  “You will be putting the Marquise at risk.  There is  _ no one  _ more suspicious or underhanded in this city at the moment then you two.  Meaning no disrespect, of course, however with things as they are…” 

They cannot afford to have Thomas Jefferson and John Adams involved.  The world knows them.  Sees them.  Watches them and reports back to the King in regards to their every movement.  They intend to save Washington, and if they are going to succeed in smuggling him out, they cannot have two  _ American Colonists  _ be seen interacting with the Marquise. 

Jefferson attempts, quickly, to state his case.  How imperative it is that he meet with Adrienne.  How he has information that could be of use to her, and that he is prepared to risk the consequences of his actions.  Angelica looks at Jefferson, and cannot help but laugh.  Her thoughts start to form, and she considers any possible benefit that a meeting with Adrienne could provide. 

Oh. 

Well. 

There is one thing. “I am not bringing you to her home.  However, she attends church in an hour.”  Both men look at her blankly.  Scowling, she collects her skirt in her hands and tells them to follow her.  She’ll get a message to Adrienne and let her decide what to do with it.  For now, she’ll have to manage the  _ philosophers.  _

***

Jefferson sat back in his seat.  Sprawling almost as he waited for Adrienne to arrive.  He scowled and glared at the ceiling as though forming arguments and dismantling them in his mind.  For his part, Adams seemed wholly uncomfortable with sitting here. 

Angelica was sorely tempted to to ask if it’s his first time in church, but she holds her tongue.  It’s not her place to judge another man’s piety.  Particularly not in times like these.  But Adams shifts and squirms like a sinner before God, and she finds her own irritation growing with each passing moment.  Unhappy with being caught in this mess to begin with. 

Yet here is where they’ll stay.  Angelica had little desire to put Adrienne under further suspicion, but stopping at this church was part of her routine. She would not be watched as closely here, and they could speak to her undisturbed.  The small prayer room was off to the side.  Walls thick and impenetrable.  __ Not even the priest would bother them. 

Adams remained unconvinced, of course.  He grumbled louder and shifted even more obnoxiously.  Bundled up as he was, he seemed determined not to catch a chill.  Scarf covering his mouth and nose, hat in his hands when he clearly wished it were on his head. 

Several long minutes pass as Adrienne prays down below.  Angelica had watched through the window as she stepped inside with Eliza.  If they are going to meet, it’ll happen soon.  The men’s impatience is a visceral thing, however.  Strange. Angelica finds waiting for Adrienne to be almost calming.  An eventuality she cannot control and can merely accept.  They're not used to waiting. 

Their sighs of relief are actually quite audible by the time Adrienne finally deigns them with her presence.  However, from her scowl, it’s clear she’s not nearly as enthusiastic about this particular meeting.  She steps inside, Eliza at her heels.  Angelica catches her sister’s eye.  She nods to her sister, and Eliza nods back.  It’s as subtle as they can justly be at the moment. 

Jefferson surges to his feet.  Bows low and finishes with two kisses to Adrienne’s cheeks.  Eliza closes the door behind them, making sure no one is there to listen in.  Jefferson starts speaking all the while, talking in rapid French to Adrienne so she cannot get a word in edgewise.  It’s a mistake.  Adrienne does not like to be talked over or ignored.  She folds her hands overtop each other and waits patiently, but Angelica can see her disatisfaction. 

He wants to help, Angelica surmises.  He feels terrible about Lafayette and his broken arm.  The fever that’s taken hold.  Jefferson tells Adrienne that there is no other man in London who worries as much as he does for her husband.  His love is so great.  Adrienne’s expression doesn’t falter.  It remains a stony mask of indifference.  Listening as Jefferson tells his tale.  “Tell me,” she says in English once he’s finally finished.  Eliza bites her lip.  Loitering at her side, uncertain of how to continue.  “Where were you in September when I first arrived?  For I do not recall you visiting then, proclaiming your love and devotion to my cause.” 

Jefferson sputters.  Cheeks coloring as he attempts to rectify his folly.  “We only wish to help,” he repeats.  It doesn’t answer the question she’d asked.  She knows it just as well as he does, and her expression doesn’t change. 

She stands before him, unbowed, unbent, unbroken.  Back straight and eyes shrewd.  “Now.  You only wish to help now, when for nearly a year your General and his aide-de-camps were imprisoned.  You wrote me no letters then.  Spoke with me not once since my arrival.  You orchestrated my acceptance to court, yes, but you’ve performed no follow through that I can see.” 

“Things have been rather challenging, my Lady,” Adams attempts to cajole.  “I’m sure you can understand our position.” 

“I  _ understand _ that right now all you wish to use me for is information.”  She delivers the line with the greatest sense of confidence that Angelica has ever seen.  There’s even a flash of temper beneath her voice.  Something that Angelica had doubted would come out.  But emotions have been running high as of late.  Agitation and uncertainty have been growing.  

She’s been terrified for Lafayette.  She’s been scared that he would fall victim to the fever that’s only been growing since his mutilation.  His arm purpled and bruised so badly that he’s been insensible with pain.  Her emotions are not nearly as kept in check as they had been when they first arrived. 

The act fades.  Adams steps closer.  Thick frame blocking the sun from the window.  “You’ve been to see General Washington?”  He asks it as a question though he already knows the answer. 

For her part, Adrienne _does_ give him the courtesy of responding.  “I’ve seen Washington, and Hamilton, and Laurens as well.  Curious you don’t ask after all of them.  Though unsurprising.  All your talk for a democratic society and you still rank those in levels of higher importance based on their birth and station.   _ All  _ men are created equal, was it not?” 

It’s a sharp jab.  One that has Jefferson sneering.   _ “Created,”  _ he stresses.  “But even God’s creations grow from sameness and importance becomes defined by action and station.  Washington was the leader of our army.” 

“Of course,” Adrienne sounds distinctly unimpressed.  She shows such behavior with a wry smile.  Angelica observes the proceedings uncomfortably.  Nervous that they’re in such a public place.  Even with their voices cast low, the walls have ears.  Thus far, Adrienne’s been careful at navigating any potential traps, but the concern is still there.  “Washington is in good health,” she reveals.  “He has been adequately maintained considering the circumstances.  If you’re asking if he could lead your armies again, he could.  Given food and time to regain his strength, it’s entirely possible.  As could, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know, both Hamilton and Laurens.” 

“And your husband, Marquise?” Jefferson stresses.  As if to prove he truly did love Lafayette. 

“Will never wield a sword with his right hand again.”  She leaves off any other promises or diagnoses. “State your interests plainly sirs, I have not the time nor care to listen or speak with you so circuitously.” 

Jefferson clears his throat then.  Adjusting his position and leaning forward.  Talking down to Adrienne as she looks straight back up at him.  “We would like to...discuss methods for seeing our General, and his son of course—”

“—and Laurens—”

“—Of course, to freedom.”

“And how, pray tell, do you intend to assist me with this endeavor?” Adrienne asks with a laugh. 

“Assist  _ you?”  _ Adams seems to have pickled his tongue.  Lips pursed and gaze almost cross eyed.  Adrienne doesn’t so much as bat an eye. 

“I’m sorry, were you implying otherwise? With what money, influence, or information do you intend to save your men? Or are you still pretending you have some kind of power here?” 

“You would be helping  _ us—” _

“—Helping  _ you  _ would imply that you’ve commissioned me for an act I would otherwise not have engaged in.  You’re mistaken.  And as I said, gentlemen—where were you six months ago?” Neither seem to know what to say.  “Or are you only coming to me now, when I’ve assured my husband’s freedom and you are desperately hoping I will help you before all your help is lost?  When we are across the channel and there is nothing more keeping my goodwill in England?” 

“Marquise...we  _ can  _ be of assistance—”

_ “—You’re Americans.  _ You cannot  _ breathe  _ in this country without the red coats watching you.  So you will have to excuse me if I don’t believe you.” Angelica needs to bite her tongue to keep from laughing.  She meets her sister’s eyes behind Adrienne’s back.  She has a point.  And it’s an irrefutable one at that.  

Adams isn’t convinced however.  If anything his agitation is only growing.  “How are  _ you  _ planning to help us?” he spits out. 

“Me? I’ve no desire to help you at all.  Your mere presence here is absurd.  And your usefullness is on a ship back to America.” 

Both Jefferson and Adams protest.  Sharp words and stern rebukes fill the air.  Adrienne shows no signs of listening.  She stares at them.  Waits for them to finish.  She doesn’t flinch nor try to argue.  Fully capable and prepared to wait until they run out of breath first.  They attack her with stern words and expectant expressions, and she remains entirely unphased by their demands and requests. 

When they’ve finished, she meets their eyes.  Adams’ first, then shifts upward to Jefferson.  “In three days, I will be returning to France with my husband and our entourage.   _ You,  _ if you mean to help me, will be on a ship heading west.  You will sail as if the god of war were on your heels, and you will give all haste.  For before you depart I will be presenting you with the most valuable cargo you will ever possess.  Delivered in a series of crates you must not open until you are at sea and well away from the British armies.  Are we clear?” 

They stare.  Mouths open.  Lips colorless.  They stare at her as though she could not look more surprising if she tried.  Adrienne remains unflinching, however.  She stares right back.  Daring them to argue.  Daring them to say no to her. 

“You...you will be entrusting us with—”

“—Cargo,” Adrienne replies.  “Gifts for the American people.  You must do this for me, if you wish to help my cause.” 

“You already have...the procurement of such cargo scheduled?” Jefferson inquires. 

Adrienne huffs loudly.  “Yes.  And that’s all I will say on the matter.  Three days time, gentlemen.  Do not be late, and do not tarry.  Tell no one.” Their agreements are swift, and Adrienne bits them good day.  She leaves without another word, Eliza at her heels. 

Angelica departs not long after. Taking her time as she strolls back to her house.  Mind spinning with curiosity.  A part of her is also terribly amused.  She’s left Jefferson and Adams to wait several hours more inside that chapel.  So that enough time has passed and there is no connection that can be made between any of them and Marquise Lafayette. 

It’s almost funny, really. 

***

That night, Angelica ensures that Eliza gets the information she’s been waiting for.  A ship has been commissioned and it is ready to disembark in three days time.  Mary sits with Angelica and Martha throughout the evening.  They drink a pot of tea between them all, and they move the final pieces into position as best they can. 

John Church leaves England with Angelica’s children.  They kiss each other once for luck, and once for good bye.  It’s not going to be safe in England soon, and he had a voyage planned to go to France anyway.  Lord North worried that their relations with the French will have been irrevocably damaged by Lafayette’s mutilation.  He’s not wrong.  He has every reason to worry. 

John saw his opportunity to slip away legally, and did so.  Angelica’s under orders to finish her tasks in London, and then join him in the French riviera. They hold each other all one final time, and Angelica takes a deep breath. 

She hopes she’ll see them again. 


	26. Martha

After not seeing her husband at all for almost a year, Martha’s spoiled in how she sees him now.  Adrienne has three days to put her plan into action, and she uses all three of those days visiting Washington.  

Their first meeting had been shocking to the dear man.  He’d sat up from his seat at the window and stared openly at the Marquise.  Floundering slightly as she closes the door behind her and strides forward.  “My name is Adrienne,” she said in slow English.  Approaching Washington and kissing his cheeks.  Even as she whispers, “I’ve always wanted to meet you, and I would very much like to talk, but I’m not supposed to know how to _speak_ English.” 

Martha’s husband doesn’t like surprises.  He’s strange like that.  He prefers knowing the plans he’s meant to follow at all times, and Adrienne is not in a position to reveal all.  There are two guards standing at the door, and she has a reputation to uphold.  Clearing her throat, Adrienne talked, and she didn't stop. 

French fell from her mouth and she directed Washington to sit as she sits across from him.  Eliza translating every word she said.  It's a game.  And it continues to be a game for every visit that follows.  In each time, she sits in his room.  Discusses the war with Eliza and Martha both at her side. 

They discuss her husband's work in America and his filial affection for Washington.  

They discuss current events.  Lafayette's broken arm.  His fevers and his declining health.  The way it's only started to improve very marginally recently.  Her hope that they can return to France as quickly as possible, and have him attended to by true physicians.  

“You believe he'll recover?” Washington asks carefully. 

“He has some weakness in his arm,” Eliza replies for Adrienne.  “His fingers do not move on command.  There is talk of permanent damage to the limb.”  More than that, Martha knows, the boy’s delirious with pain.  From the moment that club came down on his arm, he’d been in a fit of consciousness. Mumbling to himself and fighting against the pull of hysteria.

Mary had fetched valerian from her flower vendor, Will.  Had even said the man had offered it to her for free, so moved by his sacrifice.  The doctors and Pierre had been plying Lafayette with it ever since, and for the most part, he’s been sleeping.  Ignorant as they attempt to drain the bad blood from his arm and set the limb so it heals appropriately.  

As they talk, Adrienne sends Martha to fetch food and wine.  She goes without question.  Bowing her head to the guards and bidding them good day.  Jameson and Tarly wish her well and continue their watch without question.  She hurries to the kitchen.  Finding Mary already there.  The King has been requesting those ridiculous cakes that Adrienne’s put in fashion.  As if that would help him understand what had gone so horribly wrong with the French. 

“How is he?” Mary asks.  Eyes and ears are turning toward them and Martha doesn’t pretend or lie. 

“The General? He’s quite an interesting fellow, though I know not why there is so much interest in him.”  Let the whispers start.  Let them grow.  Tend to them like a garden and pluck the weeds.  Leaving only the fresh consequences of their words bring life into the world.  “He’s very dignified.  Almost like a King.  That’s what the Americans wanted him for, right?” 

Wrong.  But it changes the narrative.  It gives him a story.  The true King of the Americas, locked in the Tower.  Mary hands her a basket and some food.  She hurries back to that Tower, and she smile to the Tower guards.  They smile back, and open the  _ King’s  _ door.  “Oh, do give those boys something, would you?” Adrienne asks via Eliza. 

She pauses in the entryway, and looks to the guards.  “Wine, sirs?” she asks.  They shift awkwardly. 

“We’re not meant to on duty.” 

“Surely good sirs such as yourself understand self-control,” she teases.  “One sip will not affect you.” 

It doesn’t, and they do take a sip.  They share in the excess bread and cheese she’s brought with her, and they thank her kindly.  She curtseys to them, and steps inside.  As soon as she does, Eliza’s sent away.  Off to fetch something else.  Leaving Martha to serve as Adrienne’s attendant during the meal.  

Her husband looks at her with a heavy frown on his features.  Uncomprehending of how such things came to be.  They’ve not had a chance to truly engage in conversation. They’ve not been able to piece together their circumstances.  Not been able to discuss anything more after their brief kiss shared just a few short months ago.  Martha yearns with a desire unknown to her.  She wants to be with him.  Hold him.  Comfort him.  Support him as he stands. She wants him out of this tower and the impatience makes it impossible for her to sit still.  

Adrienne continues to talk.  She elongates her sentences, she changes her tone.  She speaks broken English so bad that Martha occasionally attempts to give reason to her words.  Martha cannot understand how someone so bright could be so good at playing the fool, but Adrienne’s determined.  

Through it all, Washington is confused.  Staring at them as if he’s never seen anything quite like this display and is trying very hard to put it all into perspective.  He answers where he can, but he’s clearly much affected by their circumstances.  Looking between both women uncertainly.  

Eliza returns.  She stops and offers shawls to the soldiers—isn’t it so cold standing out here?—before she enters the room.  Closing the door behind her.  Martha is sent out not long after.  

Adrienne’s planning is precise.  She sets up a pattern of repetition.  Martha then Eliza, Martha then Eliza.  A series of back and forth movements where the two continue to move in and out.  In and out.  Familiar faces wrapped up and bundled tight for the snow.  Eliza stands tall in her elevated shoes, face and hair covered with her shawl and scarf.  She bows her head when she walks and avoids eye contact where she can.  Polite, but always deferential. 

Martha distracts.  She talks to the soldiers.  She engages them in conversation.  _  Tell me about your wife, your children, your home.  _  Adrienne has the two of them leaving and entering at the same time.  Eliza slipping passed Martha while Martha stays behind to talk to the men.  And by the end of the first day, Adrienne tells Eliza to cough as she attends her.  

Tells Martha to sigh about Eliza catching a chill while she’s in the kitchen.  Ask others for a good medicinal remedy for her.  Mary loudly saying that Will could provide it.  She’ll ask him.  It’s the damn weather, everyone knows.  It influences them all. 

On the second day, their visits continue anew.  In and out.  In and out.  Food for the soldiers, wine for the men.  They eat with Washington, talk with Washington.  Only Adrienne has coached  _ Washington  _ to cough while they are in his room.  He does so without complaint.  Watching the proceedings with a shrewd eye of understanding. 

He coughs while Eliza lets her voice turn breathy and weak.  Translating endlessly leaving her hoarse as it is.  The coughing stops if Eliza’s on errand, but restarts the moment she returns.  Sneezing occasionally.  Bundling up more and more in the chill.  Martha fetches excess clothing and blankets for the Tower, as Adrienne professes her concern that Washington is not being properly tended to. 

Adrienne needed to order this particular garment specifically from a trusted tailor she knew.  The measurements given exactly per Martha’s recommendation.  She hides the fabric amongst blankets and folds.  She offers the men a good story while she passes through the door.  Winking and smiling to them as they stood guard.  

“Poor girl’s needing some rest, yeah?” Tarly asks when Martha hears Washington cough for Eliza.  

“Yes, but we’ll be returning home soon.  She’ll feel better there. 

“Home does that for the soul.  Best wishes on your travels tomorrow ma’am.”  She thanks the good sir, and she steps inside.  Providing the blanket for her husband, and carefully hiding his method of escape within his bedding.  

She’s sent away again not long afterward.  Careful to never keep a pattern of which one of them leaves at a time.  “Go attend to the kitchens,” she’s commanded.  So off she goes.  In a way, she can almost be gladdened by the request.  She’s never cared much for the idea that her husband could be fallible, and his continued confusion made her uncomfortable.  Made her want to spoil the plot and explain their process. 

Mary meets her in the hall.  “Angelica’s with the Queen,” she says softly.  “They’ll be wanting more tea soon.  I have to get a message to Will—”

“—I’ll do it,” Martha promises.  Hurrying, she rushes to the kitchen and fetches the porcelain pot.  Collecting the water and looseleaf and ball necessary.  She hurries the platter to the Queen’s chambers, balancing the tray expertly as she knocks.  

Charlotte bids her entry, and she bows her head as she presents her tithe.  “Oh, how lovely.  Thank you for your assistance,” the Queen murmurs.  She sniffles.  Sounds like she’s been crying.  Dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief that Martha recognizes as Angelica’s.  Setting to work, Martha places the tray on the low table between the two ladies.  She begins to serve, and Angelica ignores Martha entirely. 

“Is there anything I can do?  Anyway I can help?” Angelica asks. 

“Oh, dear, after all that’s been done to you and your family I hardly feel comfortable asking for more.” The Queen blows her nose and rubs the cloth against the flat of her nostril.  Laughing through a stuttering breath.  “I have no notion of how to proceed.  He is so despondent these days, and I have never understood how to reach him in these moods.  Does Lord Church have similar woes?” 

“Yes, of course,” Angelica soothes.  “Every man has them.  They are incapable of existing in life without a fit or two of their own.” She smiles, and the Queen matches it.  Watery and tired, but accepting of the advice.  

Mary’s fare had included bits of cake as well, and the Queen finally spies it on the platter.  She laughs, choking a little as she needs to swallow back her still present tears.  “Those damnable things have become so popular in this place.  I could never eat one again and it would be too soon.” 

“The King seems to enjoy them,” Angelica muses.  “And they do have quite a fluffy texture and flavor.  I must say, I am intrigued by them.”

“Oh certainly, they’re unique and they’re well suited.  It’s such a shame that the Marquise will be taking them with her.” 

“You’re one of the Marquise’s, aren’t you?” Angelica asks Martha.  Not used to being addressed while she’s working, it takes her by surprise.  She jumps, blinking at Angelica in open confusion.  But after a moment, she gathers her wits.  Nods her head quickly and straightens her back. 

“Yes, my lady.” The Queen is watching her now, tilting her head a touch as she inspects Martha.  To what end, Martha doesn’t know.  She hadn’t expected to be here, let alone speaking with Angelica.  

“How came you to be serving here, then?” the Queen asks. 

“A favor to another, your grace,” Martha tells her.  She shifts uncomfortably.  Not enjoying the interrogation in the slightest.  As a young girl she’d often dreamed about the idea of standing before the Queen.  She’d dreamed of the dress she’d wear, the jewels she’d proudly display.  How her hair would look.  How pleasant she’d behave. 

She’d never once imagined she would speak with the Queen of England, dressed like a maid and frazzled because she’d been so focused on the serving of  _ cake  _ she hadn’t realized that she was being drawn into the conversation.  “Do you think you could teach your recipe to the kitchens?” Angelica inquires. 

Oh.   _ Oh.   _ Martha considers it.  She takes her time to consider it, and the Queen watches with wide eyes.  Hopeful yet uncertain.  “I believe so, my lady.  If it pleases the Marquise, I can discuss with our chef and assist where I may.”

“There,” Angelica says, dismissing Martha entirely.  She looks to the Queen and grins.  “Perhaps that will gladden his heart.  He may still, at least, be merry at the thought of his favorite dessert being made available for his use after the Marquise has left.” 

Charlotte’s eyes are weary, but she seems to be in better spirits.  “So long as  _ I  _ don’t need to eat it, I will be glad to hear it.  Go, please,” Charlotte requests.  “Ask the Marquise if it’s acceptable to her to train such knowledge unto our staff.  I’d be much appreciative of it if you would.  If it can in someway reach my husband, I will be most gladdened by it.” 

“Of course, your grace.”  Martha bows deep and hurries to leave. 

She finds Mary on the way.  There is so much work left to do.  And from the way Mary keeps muttering and running about, there are endless flowers that need to be arranged. 


	27. Eliza

General Washington’s room contains a bed, a writing desk, a chair, and a wide window that looks out into the yard.  There’s precious few places to hide anything, and yet Eliza manages to find each possible location and make use of it as best she can.  Adrienne ‘practices her English’  _ at  _ Washington, while he sits in a chair out of view of the door.  Should one of the guards peer through the small slot to look in, they’ll only see Adrienne talking animatedly in Washington’s general direction. 

And while Adrienne plays at being an actress, Eliza takes her time to mime everything that he needs to do.  It’s an impressive game of charades that leaves the both of them almost breathless.  She waves her hands about and shows him how to tie laces and wrap the shawl, and he blinks at her like he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry.  Likely both.  Eliza’s merely grateful he isn’t  _ angered  _ by their decision.  

He looks at them with obvious worry, however.  His expression pinched and untenable.  He shakes his head more often than not, but there’s no time to explain in detail.   _ Trust us,  _ Eliza mouths, not daring to give voice to the request.   _ Please.   _ The General capitulates.  Though it’s clear he isn’t happy.  It’s clear he doesn’t want to try anything that would bring them harm.  

Adrienne dares not allow them a pen and paper to pass notes to one another.  Putting any of this plan in writing makes them vulnerable to failure, and they’ve worked too hard to set up this farce.  So they continue to  _ quietly  _ make due with what they have.  And if Eliza makes the General blush along the way, then she’s at least happy she managed a feat otherwise impossible to achieve. 

He coughs continuously throughout.  Likely making  _ himself  _ hoarse with his efforts.  He is most embarrassed by pitching his voice so high during the exchange, but he manages it to great success.  Producing charming little hitches that have Eliza biting her lip in amusement.  They sound natural enough, though there’s a deeper tone to them that Eliza fears may be too much for a woman's voice.  In any case, it is what it is. 

He practices as they continue discussing.  And Eliza carefully takes the time to arrange the scarf around her face.  Pull her shawl up over her hair, and work to make her look as small and as insignificant as possible.  Washington offers Eliza the bed to rest in while they speak, and Adrienne tells her to do so. 

She does as she’s directed, and waits. 

Martha comes in with two maids not long after, carrying a great load of blankets, pillows, food and drink with them. “Honestly; Jameson, Tarly, can you not tell that they’re struggling?” Adrienne spits out in rapid French—voice shrill.  Eliza repeats it in English, but keeps her voice pained and raspy. 

Shamed, the guards do enter, Jameson keeping an eye on Washington as Tarly assists the assortment with their overzealous load.  Eliza coughs and Tarly bites his lip uncomfortably.  Looking about at everything in obvious confusion.  “She seems very ill, my lady…” he offers, unsolicited. 

“Better in France,” Adrienne replies tartly.  Jameson doesn’t seem convinced, but she waves her hand at him.  “Yes, yes, you’ve been helpful much.  Go now, thank you,” Adrienne sighs.  “Sophia, Marie do provide them with their foods yes? Go.” 

The girls smile and collect the food from the baskets, guiding both Jameson and Tarly to the door and settling down on the floor.  Making a snack for them.  With the door half cracked, Eliza slides from the bed.  Removing her scarf and shawl for Martha to adjust along the pillows.  Bundling them up and draping them just so.  Drawing a thick down blanket high along the bed, so as to hide the strange lumpiness of their fake body.  And when she's done, Eliza changes her clothes.   

The General turns his back respectfully, as Eliza's hands pull at her ties.  Slipping out of one dress and into a second that matches the maids’.  She even removes her shoes and exchanges them for Adrienne's.   She doesn’t put them on.  Her legs feel short and stubbly now.  Light and strangely freed.  Stepping forward, she kisses Washington’s cheeks in the French way.  Swallowing back the first sign of anxiety she’s felt all day. 

Martha nods to her and all of Eliza's excess clothes slide into her laundry basket beneath the old blankets and sheets they'd exchanged.  Martha steps out, load hiding even  _ her  _ body, and Eliza squeezes past.  With the two other girls in front of them and Tarly and Jameson already mostly distracted, it's all too easy for Eliza to just slip away.

No one's looking for her. 

Her padded feet are entirely silent compared to the laughing delight and cheers being drawn from maids and guards alike.  By the time she reaches the landing of the first floor, she replaces her footwear. She hears Washington continuing to cough in her voice, and Tarly asking if Adrienne’s certain Eliza doesn’t require any water or rest elsewhere. 

Adrienne tells him they’re fine, and down below: Eliza exhales. 

Her involvement with Washington is over for the time being.  And now there are two more people she needs to see. 

***

Since Lafayette’s mutilation,  Pierre had argued that he wanted proof the Marquis’ sacrifice would not be in vain.  He’d demanded a larger hutch for the ravens be built.  And, since most in court believed the mess to be Alex and John’s fault as it was, they were instructed to build it. 

As far as Eliza knew, they were doing just that.  Managing John’s back as best they can and working through the night.  Biting and snapping at anyone who appeared.  John had, more likely than not, been responsible for striking a man senseless when he’d attempted to mock their work.  Thankfully, once the man had awakened from his head injury, he couldn’t remember a thing about it. 

Mary hadn’t been impressed when she’d found out.  John truly is going to bring that poor girl to an early grave with all her worrying. She stops to speak with her before going to the Tower.  And physically, it’s clear that Eliza’s suspicions were correct.  The older woman looks worn ragged.  Even without John’s fits of temper, she’s been running and fetching errands for days on end.  

Hardly sleeping as she hurries between Will, Lord North, St. James’ Palace, and the Tower.  She’s barking orders at lesser servants and hauling flowers to where they need to be.   _ Do you know how difficult it is to manage flowers in the winter?  _ Mary hisses at her as she stomps from place to place.   _ Do you know how absurdly unreasonable this all is?  _

It does seem rather ridiculous, all things considered.  That with soldiers being held as prisoners of war and being tortured in King George’s palace, he’s concerned about his greenery and if his gardener has ensured adequate colors in their greenhouse.  Apparently the Queen was quite fond of the flowers and George had ordered it all to happen.  But the sheer time and effort involved in such a task left Mary in a permanently unhappy mood. 

But it’s not the flowers Mary’s upset about.  She’s been handling the flowers for far too long for it to be  _ them.   _ Eliza cannot stop herself from wrapping her arms around Mary’s body and holding her close.  Whispering,  _ he’s going to be okay,  _ in her ear so no one else can hear her.  Mary sags slightly into the touch.  Soaks in the comfort Eliza so freely provides.  Then steps away. 

Pointing a savage finger toward the basket that she’s set up at Adrienne’s request, she tells her to take it and go.  Less than two minutes later she snaps at someone else to come and take this vase full of poppies before she finds someone to give  _ them  _ a whipping.  Wisely, Eliza takes her basket and hurries away.  Some battles cannot be fought right now, and Mary is certainly not one of them.

Really, though, considering how hot their tempers flare, it’s not altogether unsurprising that Mary and John are married.  Eliza cannot think of anyone else who’s ever matched John’s temper so brilliantly, though her own husband seems the best at maintaining it. 

It takes time to get back to the Tower, night falling dark and thick around them.  And it takes even  _ more  _ time to reach the raven hutch.  Ravenmaster Edwards is sitting inside when she arrives, however.  Sighing heavily as he tries to tend to it all.  Elderly hands working harder than they should at his age.  “Sir?” she calls out, and he looks up at her.  

“Ah you’re the Marquise’s girl?” he asks, expression pinched.  

“Yes, sir.  I was looking for Mr. Hamilton and Laurens.” 

“Off fetching supplies,” he sighs.  “Though they should be back for the evening soon.”  Old bones creak loudly as he stretches his back.  There’s a stool not far away, and she motions to it.  Smiling at him as he slowly meanders over and takes a seat.  “Not as young as I once was,” he grumbles. 

Reaching into her basket, she offers him a slice of cake.  It’s wrapped in a loose linen, and he takes it from her with a grateful smile.  “You girls have been plying us with sweets for so long, we shall all become rotund and unable to work!” 

She laughs at the comment.  Casting an eye about for a seat of her own.  “It’s our secret plan,” she admits.  “Feed you good food so you will forgive us our trespasses.”  She offers him some of the wine she’s brought as well, and he drinks from it slowly. 

“You’ll be back to France in the morning?”

“Yes, our ship leaves at dawn.” King Louis himself intended to meet them at at Calais.  Physicians and surgeons gathering to inspect Lafayette the moment he stepped off the ship.  Pierre had been nursing a headache for days.  Mumbling about how excessive the King was being, while at the same time rejoicing in Lafayette’s popularity.  There’d been some talk of perhaps severing the arm, so bad was the break.  But this morning it seemed to be on the mend.  Eliza can only pray it continues to heal. 

Edwards drinks another sip of wine and eats another bite of cake.  “Well we’ll certainly miss you.”  She doubts it.  All things considered.  But she smiles anyway.  Holds her basket to her chest, and waits for the moment when Edwards’ eyes start to slowly close.  His hand going limp around his wine.  She catches the bottle before it falls. Corking it and setting it to the ground. 

Edwards had a coat draped over one of the raven’s perches, and she fetches it now.  Adjusts so it lays over his body.  The birds watch her cautiously.  Making strange whistling noises that she can’t determine or decipher.  That’s fine.  She doesn’t mind. 

The door to the hutch opens, and she jumps.  Not expecting it at all.  It’s John though.  Alex at his heels.  But rosy cheeked from being in the cold, and wearing far less than any sane man would in this weather.  They frown at her, and she licks her lips uncomfortably.  Tries to smile and feels as though it’s weak and uncoordinated.  Awkward on her face.  

Alex notices Edwards first.  The coat.  The crumbs still on the man’s beard.  He lets out a streaming hiss of air, and John turns.  Sees it for himself.  “Did you just kill a man, Elizabeth Hamilton?” John asks her slowly.  His tone is so dark and so malicious, Eliza wonders if he’s even listening to himself. 

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she tells him with more confidence than she feels she truly has.  She tries not to think of the first time.  Blood on her hands.  Her hairbrush used in a manner that makes her shiver even now.  Adrienne had been the one to bring that habit to its end.  Taking her hand and squeezing hard if she so much as thought to reach for the damned object. 

Sitting with her as they watched it burn. 

She’d also been the one to give Eliza a knife that hides quite well within the folds of Eliza’s dress.  A fact that she feels no compulsion to divulge here and now.  “He’s breathing,” Alex whispers.  

“He’s asleep,” Eliza replies.  “We don’t have much time.”  Edwards will sleep the day away.  Hours will pass before he awakens, and even if he does wake up from the drugged state, he’ll more than likely slip into a natural slumber as well.  John and Alex share a brief look, before both move toward the man.  Hoisting him upright and carrying him awkwardly to a cleared out spot not far away.  They settle him down gently.  Arrange his limbs to be comfortable, and pull the coat more firmly about his shoulders.  

He’ll be stiff upon waking, but he’ll be all right.  Eliza hadn’t wanted the man to die.  Neither had anyone else.  He’d been kind to them.  “We’re not leaving without the birds,” John tells Eliza, and had she not already considered such a thing, she thinks that she would match Mary in her fury. 

_ First Washington and now the birds,  _ Eliza sighs.  But Adrienne had thought the idea held merit.  Amusing, perhaps, in the long term.  Vindictive in the short.  “You’ve been fetching and carrying boxes all day haven’t you?” she asked.  They look at each other.  Alex leaves.  He doesn’t stop to say anything, just hurries out the door.  

Turning, Eliza presents her basket to John.  There’s meat there.  Stolen from the kitchen and painted with just enough of Mary’s poppies to sedate a bird but not kill it.  “Will,” she divulges, “is apparently quite knowledgeable in such things.” 

“Who in God’s name is  _ Will?”  _ John asks stupidly.  Eliza almost wants to laugh at him, but she doesn’t.  She points to the birds.  

“We don’t have time for a committee.” They don’t.  John snatches the meat between his fingers and feeds the birds one right after another.  Cooing and smiling, stroking their feathers as they trustingly take his offering.  

The door opens just as he finishes leaning over the three fluffy feathered chicks.  Almost furry they’re so poofy.  Scowling little faces reminding Eliza of their caretaker in fond amusement.  Alex comes inside dragging a wooden crate.  He scoops up the straw and hay from the ground.  Padding it to make the bottom and sides soft.  By the time the birds start settling to sleep, John’s able to easily lift them up and manage them into the box. 

It’s not, strictly speaking, the most polite thing to do to an animal.  But it’s either this or nothing at all.  Each bird is breathing well, they rest in the box with the greatest of care, and John strokes their feathers and adjusts their limbs to ensure they come to no harm on the journey.  “How long do you think it’ll take for England to fall without their ravens?” he asks Alex.  

Alex doesn’t respond.  Just gives Eliza a look.   _ You see what I have to deal with?   _ She laughs and motions toward the door. “Hurry now.”  They truly don’t have time to tarry. 

John’s back is obviously still hurting him as he moves.  He hisses when he leans down to lift the crate, and from Alexander’s position, it’s clear he’s managing the bulk of the weight.  Still, Alexander says nothing as they walk through the grounds.  Heaving and huffing.  Exhaustion from the day's work still catching up with them. 

Eliza takes the lead, walking with her back straight and eyes forward.  No one stops them.  They’ve been watching John and Alex carrying identical boxes all day.  They’ve seen her lead them to the Marquise more than once.  She bids the guards a good evening, and they wave her farewell.  Wishing her safe passage in the morning.

Complacency, Adrienne had whispered to her one evening.  Complacency, and an expectation of the normal.  No one asks questions if you follow a routine.  John and Alex step out the door.  And no one knows that they are not coming back. 

They walk slowly, surely, directly to Adrienne’s home.  They step inside, and Pierre immediately greets them.  Draws them into a room with no windows.  They set the box down.  Several servants approach.  Three identical cases are lined side by side.  One filled with clothing.  One filled with shoes.  One filled with hay. 

The birds are quickly transferred to the third case, and Pierre turns to the servants.  “Leave in quarter hour increments.  One to the north ship, one to the south, and one to the west.  The documents are already in order, and you will be expected.  Hurry now, and do your duty.” 

“Where are you taking our birds?” John asks, watching as the case is closed and the birds are quickly and quietly escorted back off the premises. 

“You’ll be with them soon enough,” Pierre promises. “But for now…” he motions for the other servants to enter the room.  They’d been loitering in the hall.  Waiting and desperate for action.  “Wash,” Pierre commands.  “And get dressed.  You’ll need to shave.”  The last bit he says with a twist of his wrist.  A sharp blade waiting for them on a side table. 

“I’m not doing that,” John hisses immediately.  His beard growth is two months old.  Straggling and inappropriate.  His hair has grown in some.  Strands forming now, rather than just stubble.  It’s short enough that with fine attire and a good wig no one would look twice at him.  Except for the beard.  

Pierre sighs.  Shakes his head, “John…”

The younger man is unmoved.  His arms are folded across his chest.  His teeth all but gnashing at the frenchman.  “You touch me with that knife and I’ll kill you myself.” Alex walks toward it.  “Don’t you dare, Hamilton.” His fingers wrap around the handle and he turns toward John.  

“Trust me,” he demands.  Voice breathy and weak.  Even so, John’s face loses all color. He trembles and shakes.  Filthy skin looking all the more sickly in light of his fear.  His head jerks side to side, but Alex approaches anyway.  

Eliza watching as the scene takes place.  Two dancers circling around each other.  Waiting to decide which one of them will lead.  “Sit down,” Alex orders, and John sits.  He stares at Alex.  Lips mouthing words silently.  Tears at his eyes.  “I’m not going to hurt you.”  Alex’s voice is as parchment over flames.  Weak and tearing itself into nothingness. 

Cream is fetched.  A bowl for water.  Alex soaps John’s face and tends to him gently.  Mumbling words that are formless through the gurgle of his throat.  He does it anyway.  Continues to speak.  When he lifts the blade, John’s whole body goes taut.  His breath falters in his chest. 

But Alex is careful.  The blade is sharp.  It cuts the beard from John’s face.  Leaves his cheeks and chin smooth and proper.  Leaves his face clear of pain or blood or affliction.  He kisses John when he’s finished.  Announcing he’s done as he breathes against John’s lips.  No one is surprised when John throws himself backward. 

When he deigns to wash alone.  By himself.  Trembling so fiercely Eliza worries he won’t somehow drown.  But the bowl and the bucket are too much for him and he’s already consented to the shave.  “We can perfume him if we have to,” Pierre mutters as he follows John out of the room. 

They’re alone. 

Eliza and her husband.  

She hasn’t been alone with him since...it feels like their wedding night.  She smiles at him.  Slow and brittle.  “I asked you once,” Alex rasps.  “If you relished being a poor man’s wife.” 

“I relish being  _ your  _ wife,” she tells him.  She steps forward. One step, two.  His arms wrap around her, and her arms wrap around him.  She doesn’t care if she needs to change her dress.  She doesn’t care if he’s filthy to touch.  If he’s been in the company of birds so long, he has a faint smell of them about him.  “I’d like to  _ be  _ your wife now.”

He chuckles against her chest.  Short hitching gasps that make her brow furrow in confusion.  She leans back to look at him.   _ “Now?  _ My dear Betsy?”  It takes her a moment to understand his meaning, and she flushes.  She hadn’t meant it like  _ that!  _

He kisses her, though.  And she kisses him back.  If this plan fails, and this is the last night they have together...at least they had this.  Whatever this was, at least they had this.  And after so long...it feels good to be in his arms. 


	28. Adrienne

_ The truth is, _ Adrienne thinks as she shaves Washington’s beard.  _  I’m terrified.   _ Her hand is shaking as she removes the last bits of fuzz from the General’s cheeks.  As Martha collects the hair in a bucket and leaves the door in a flurry of fast moves that end with chatter and amusement outside.  Her two loyal servants had done their job well earlier, and everyone has played their parts.  

Adrienne’s been talking to Washington for nearly three hours now.  He’s been play acting as Eliza, as absurd as it might seem, and she’s been answering in kind.  It’s almost time to go.  The moon has risen high in the sky, and Washington is almost prepared.  There’s a dress that she’d had made for him, and it matches Eliza’s from earlier in the day. 

His cheeks are darkly colored as he carefully removes his shirt and breeches and instead replaces them with the garment.  Adrienne continues to chatter.  Her heartbeat racing in her chest.  She can feel her lungs squeezing tightly.  She keeps licking her lips.  It’s a terrible habit, but she can’t seem to stop it.  Can’t seem to set it all aside. 

Adrienne had removed her own shoes earlier.  Given them to Eliza to wear during her flight.  Now, she slides her feet into Eliza’s.  Feels absurdly tall in them, and is grateful that for each day Eliza practiced wearing them—she had spent the evening doing the same.  Washington wraps Eliza’s scarf around his cheeks.  The shawl over his head.  Leaving only his eyes.  

He’s a tall man, and Adrienne is a short woman.  But when he bends his back, and with the addition of her elevated shoes, they match the height difference she and Eliza had maintained for so very long.  “It’s time for you to leave, my lady,” Washington tells her.  His voice is calm.  Authoritarian.  His eyes are sparkling.  Just as terrified as she is. 

She takes his hand.  He squeezes his fingers around her palm.  “You will pray, sir?” she asks him.  

“Yes,” he replies.  

“Come then, my lamb,” she tells ‘Eliza’.  They shift the blankets.  Make things rustle.  Move their feet.  Their grip on each other’s hands is bruising.  Adrienne walks to the door, and Washington coughs again for good measure. 

“Done for the evening, then?” Jameson asks as Adrienne steps outside.  She nods her head. 

“You are right, my lamb is sick,” she sighs loudly.  “And the General wishes to pray.”  Each word draws from her slow and steady.  Her accent more thick and shaky than she’s ever heard it.  “You will leave him to his prayers?” 

“Of course my lady.” Jameson swears. 

“Safe travels,” Tarly wishes.

“God be with you,” she replies. 

And they walk.  One step in front of the other.  

The ground is solid stone beneath her feet, but Adrienne feels as if she were walking on a ship at sea.  Her knees tremble.  Her hips feel disjointed and  unhinged.  Her hand around Washington’s couldn’t feel any tighter.  The muscles are straining beneath her grip.  His too long nails cut into her flesh

She wouldn’t change it for the world.  Adrienne has walked this route time and time again.  She’s memorized the change of the guard.  The paths she needs to take.  She’s counted staircases and turns.  She’s mitigated variables and depended on her staff.  Her loyal staff.  Who knew from the beginning her priority was the safety and well-being of their liege lord.  Who agreed to follow her even if it meant death. 

Eliza had left earlier with the second guard rotation.  Adrienne and Washington would depart with the third.  They won’t notice ‘Eliza’ with Adrienne now.  Won’t think it odd that she’s with ‘Eliza’, as she’s  _ always  _ with her.  They’ll not question how Eliza crossed the bridge twice.  They won’t be confused. 

She knows this. She  _ knows.   _ But what if she’s wrong?  What if she’s chosen incorrect?  There had been plans discussed before now.  Options.  Thoughts and methodology that couldn’t be ignored.  Killing Jameson and Tarly had been one.  Reducing the risk they’d be able to call attention to Washington’s disappearance. But they’ve proven loyal and kind.  They’ll leave Washington alone.  They usually do.  Especially when asked for privacy.  

Tunnels could take them from the Devereaux Tower to the chapel, but it doesn’t take them from the Tower walls.  It doesn’t fix the dilemma of crossing the gate.  And no matter what happened...they still needed to cross the gate.  Aside from laying siege to the Tower of London, her only other option involves plainly this. 

Just walking. 

Washington coughs.  Lowers his head.  He keeps the shawl over his hair, the scarf about his face.  He play-acts as Eliza and keeps his eyes studiously forward.  He’s lost weight in his imprisonment.  Matching Eliza’s thin frame.  It’s not entirely perfect, but the bulky winter cloak that matches his dress hides his figure from too discerning a gaze.  

They approach the gate.  The guards glance toward them, and Adrienne smiles.  “God bless you,” she tells them.  She’s bid farewell.  Safe voyage.  ‘Eliza’ is wished good health.  They keep walking.  One foot in front of the other. 

She’s listening to her heart beat in her head.  She can  _ feel  _ her heart beat in her chest.  It thumps against her ribs with annoying persistence.  Washington’s nails dig into her skin, and she digs right back.  Her legs wobble beneath her, but she keeps walking forward.  Just one step after another.  

When Adrienne was a little girl, her mother sat her down in front of a chess board.  She held up the pieces and explained each one.   This is a bishop, it travels backward and forward in a diagonal line.  This is a rook, it travels side to side or up and down--backward and forward.  This is a knight, it travels two squares up and one square over.  An L shape.  In any direction it pleases.  It’s the only one that can jump another piece’s head.  This is the queen.  The most powerful piece on the board. It can move forward and backward, side to side, and diagonally as many squares as it wants. Then there’s the king.  The game is over if the king is lost.  He’s the weakest piece on the board, however.  He can only hide behind the others.  Run away.  One square at a time. 

Her mother then lifted the pawn.  Placed it in front of Adrienne, and had her wrap her fingers around it.   _ “These are the pawns,”  _ she’d said.   _ “They go forward one square at a time, until they reach the end of the board.  And then they become any piece you want.”  _

_ “Any piece?”  _ Adrienne had asked, staring at the smallest piece in the set.  Its rounded head and its unflattering edges along its stem. 

_“Any piece except the King.  There can only be one king.  One mission.  One goal you defend with all your might.”_ Her mother had waited for Adrienne to think about it.  Waited as she stared at the piece that suddenly felt far too heavy in her palm. _“For the rest of your life, you will be treated as a pawn.  All women are.  Someone else will move you about.  Decide who you marry, take away every one of your plans.  You will have no choice.  No control.  No agency.  You will be forgotten and ignored because you are a_ pawn.” Her mother had tapped the base of her chin.  Smiled.   _“But that’s okay._

_ “Because,” _ she continued.  _ “ a pawn is the only piece who rises above their station.  The only piece that decides its own fate in the end.  A pawn is the only piece that rises up to the most powerful piece on the board, and it only does it once it’s behind enemy lines.”  _

That’s the most dangerous place to be, Adrienne knows.  That’s the most treacherous space.  Occupied by every one of the opposing King’s army and forces.  All threats aimed in her direction.  The last square is the hardest to reach, but once it’s there...once she’s touched it...the game is over. 

She’ll be the queen in the thick of things.

She’ll win.

Adrienne reaches across her body to squeeze Washington’s arm.  She takes hold of him right above his elbow, and she licks her lips again.  No one else sees who he is.  They walk by.  They accept the facade she’s been building since the first day they arrived in England.  Since the day she had Eliza wear those shoes and wear dresses that were far too long for her.  Since the day she had Eliza wrap her head and face.  Bend her back and start to cough. 

All the world looks passed this weak little ‘girl’ who is huddling at Adrienne’s side.  And they let them walk.  They leave them be.  Adrienne’s heart is pounding faster and faster in her chest.  She swallows great gulps of air, but she does so subtly.  She does so minutely.  She doesn’t dare let her terror show. 

She keeps her mask in place. 

They cross the gate.  They cross the bridge.  They step onto the cobblestone road and into the carriage that is waiting to take them back to her borrowed home.  She opens the door.  Washington goes inside.  She sits across from him, and the carriage starts up. 

It’s a short trip back to her home.  It feels as though it takes hours.  Neither he nor she speak the entire way.  Neither, she suspects, has any idea what to say.  

They don’t have long. 

***

All things considered, the looks on Alex, John, and Gilbert's faces when General Washington stepped through the front door to Adrienne’s house wearing a dress and a pretty blue shawl _might_ have helped ease Adrienne’s anxiety some.  However, she was not nearly as cruel a person as to subject him to such things.  Instead, the only witness to his shame is his wife.  Who knew all along that he would be here.  Dressed as this.  She doesn’t hesitate once. 

Martha takes her husband by his hands, and leads him to a room to change.  Removes his borrowed clothing to instead dress him in more appropriate attire.  A shirt and good breeches are quickly provided for him.  Accompanied by a warm coat and hat.  His hair was cut briskly and a wig was placed upon his head.  Cheeks powdered lightly to provide an air of elegance.  

All the while they whisper lovingly to one another.  Washington marveling at this beautiful and flawless gem he has in his wife, Martha unbearably happy her husband is here.  Together with her.  At long last.  

They’ll be parted soon.  An unfortunate consequence of their plotting.  All good things must end.  “You’re a sailor on a charter devoted to the trade of luxury items.  Your ship leaves at dawn.” Pierre coaches Washington as the man gazes longingly at his wife. 

“Understood,” he replies.  His fingers tighten around her hands.  His voice sounds dazed and confused, but that will last a while yet.  It will fade in time. 

Adrienne serves herself a glass of bourbon, and she swallows it down.  No one comments, complains, or judges.  Which is good, because she fully intends to serve herself another.  

Her hands haven’t stopped shaking since they arrived.  Elsewhere, she can hear her husband talking to someone.  John most likely.  Pierre mentioned that he was going to address John’s back again before he left.  She hopes that went well.  There would be precious  few moments at sea for him to be tended to.   

When Washington is properly attired and he seems to have calmed enough for the reunion, they lead him to the back room where Alex and Eliza were hiding.  From the state of Eliza’s hair, and Alex’s rumpled shirt it seems as if they had made the best with what little time they had, and Adrienne cannot honestly say she’s surprised.  She hadn’t acted much different the first night her husband had returned to her bed. 

They’re being polite about the exchange.  Eliza’s hair is slowly being smoothed into position, and Alex is not nearly  _ as  _ rumpled as he could be.  They’re sweet together, though.  Standing so close, bodies arching closer still as if they wish to still be wrapped in each other’s arms.  They won’t see each other again for quite some time after tonight.  This reunion is soft and quiet.  It’s bittersweet in its entirety. 

When Alex looks up to see who they’ve brought with them, he snaps to immediately.  A perfect soldier.  One who’s attempts are made remarkably useless as Washington shoulders Pierre out of the way to draw the boy in for a fierce embrace.  “Your wife,” Washington says stiffly.  “Is a gift the English language has no words for, an uncompromising talent and delicate heart.  You should have married her years before.” 

Eliza’s cheeks darken.  Embarrassed.  She lifts a hand to her mouth to hide her reaction, but she has no chance to hide.  Her husband returns Washington’s embrace enthusiastically and rasps “If only I’d  _ met  _ her years before.” There isn’t a moment of hesitation.  There is no subtle meaning.  And Eliza deserves all the praise she’s receiving.  After  _ everything  _ she’s done.  She deserves it more than anyone else.  

There is movement behind her, and she steps aside as John appears.  He’s holding Gilbert upright, an arm around each other’s waists.  John is supremely uncomfortable with the position.  His natural anxiety warring with his need to assist his friend.  Gilbert is curled over his arm.  His face is drenched with sweat and his eyes are glassy.  But he stares up at Washington like he’s never seen another man look so dignified. 

And Washington releases Alex.  Goes to Gilbert and kisses his cheeks.  Hesitates only briefly, before embracing John and Gilbert both.  Not eager to remove Gilbert from John’s care, but watching John for any undue response.  It doesn’t happen.  John stand stiff.  Not  _ violent  _ nor openly rejecting of the contact, but stiff none-the-less. 

“My boys…”  There are no words that can fill the wells of sorrow that lie between them. 

“I...I will not be traveling back to America with you,” Gilbert whispers to Washington.  There are tears caught in his throat.  Building in his eyes.  Here is where their paths part.  Splinter in different directions.  There is no other way to travel safely together.  These are the cards they’ve been dealt.  And this is the hand that they follow. 

“We’ll have to win the war without you then,” Washington tells him.  “So when you do come to America, you may do so in leisure.  With grace and piety, and joy.  Knowing that you are loved, and not needing to fight for such love.” 

The war. 

No one has spoken about what will happen when they return, but the war is imminent now.  There is no denying its existence.  It’s foreboding drums that beat a march forward and forward.  Gilbert isn’t comforted by the words.  He apologizes.  Once, twice, three times.  Apologizes again and again, but Washington will hear none of it. 

Just holds Adrienne’s husband, and tells him that he’s done so much already.  It’s going to be all right.  They will see each other again soon.  And if Gilbert's arm heals, and if he can travel the ocean...Washington will always have a place for Gilbert at his side.  “My wife will be leaving with you,” Washington tells him firmly.  “I would not trust her with anyone else.”  The words seem off, after everything they’ve all gone through.  But Gilbert stares up at Washington as if they have healed some wound he’s created for himself. 

“Marquise…” Pierre murmurs.  

It’s time to leave.  

The night is turning to day soon.  Hours have been slipping away at odd turns.  Too slow on one end, too fast on another.  They need to leave.  Get on the ship and be prepared to sail the moment Angelica arrives.  One second of delay could be catastrophic for all of them.  

John twists.  Pulls Gilbert more soundly against him.  He mumbles something to her husband.  Choking on words that no one else can hear.  Gilbert returns the embrace with his good arm.  Fevered brow sliding against John’s cheek.  

Someone provides a cloak for him, and John helps pull it into position.  He kisses Gilbert.  Lightly.  Longingly.  Adrienne gives them as much privacy as she can manage, and is pleased to see that the others do as well.  Tender and gentle.  Whispers in French.  

Eliza slips on her shoes one final time, for one final journey.  She kisses her husband.  She bids him farewell.  Alex buries his hands in her hair.  He whispers sweet nothings.  He strokes her cheeks with his thumbs.  “I’ll see you,” he gets out, just as his voice starts to break into silence.  “I'll see you again,” he breathes against her.  Their brows touch.  

For the first time since she saw him, Adrienne’s struck by something she’d never noticed before.  Neither Alex, nor John, nor Washington, nor Gilbert are wearing their wedding bands.  Their hands are free from twists of gold.  No symbol of their relations.  She clenches her teeth, and draws her gaze from Eliza and Alex. 

Pierre has eased Gilbert from John.  Has started to shuffle him toward the door.  Alex calls out.  Goes to them.  It’s not Adrienne’s place to become involved.  She looks instead to John.  Standing still, so quiet and alone.  Shivering a little.  Arms wrapping around his body.  Holding himself in ways he won’t let anyone else touch him. 

She approaches him slowly, carefully, with as much care and consideration as she can.  He meets her eyes.  Looks away.  Lips pressed tight together.  “Thank you,” she tells him softly.  “For all that you’ve done, all these years, for my family.” 

“Your husband,” he corrects.  “I never knew your family.” 

“He  _ is  _ my family, as are all of you now.  Forever and always.” she tells him simply.  Then, for him alone, she leans up and kisses his cheeks.  Whispers in his ear, “I believe in you John Laurens.”  Let him take it as he will.  But for a boy who’s been so long lost at sea without a way to steer, the words leave him stunned.  Leave him staring at her, eyes wide and lips parted. 

Alexander steps forward and kisses Gilbert goodbye.  He repeats it to her as well.  They embrace.  They wish each other well.  A carriage is summoned, and Adrienne turns away as Martha and Washington say their final words to one another. 

Mary is waiting on the steps.  “Goodbye, my lady,” she murmurs softly.  

Unable to leave without saying goodbye properly, Adrienne holds the woman close.  Her first confidante and informant and friend in all things.  They will likely not see each other again.  “Thank you,” she whispers to Mary.  “Thank you for everything.” 

Mary squeezes her close.  “Safe travels.  May we never need to work together in the future.”  It is precisely the kind of ringing endorsement she longs to hear.  

With tears in her eyes, she steps back and away from Mary.  Scrambles into the carriage.  Martha just behind her.  Her husband looks out toward the home the King of England provided for them.  She takes his hand.  “You’ll see them again.”  She can feel it in her bones.  They’ll see each other again.  They must. Adrienne refuses to leave her family in pieces.  Refuses to allow these halves to never be made whole once more. 

But right now, as they start riding toward the ship, even the thought of a few months feels like years and years away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Accuracy of this escape: IT ACTUALLY HAPPENED!
> 
> William Maxwell, 5th Earl of Nithsdale, a Jacobite of the '15, was sprung from the prison by his wife and her maid who kept coming in and out of the Tower so many times that they confused the guards, and the Earl was able to escape the Tower dressed as a woman.
> 
> Look it up. 
> 
> It's the most hilarious escape I've ever heard, and it was so perfect.


	29. Mary

An awkward silence fills what remains of Adrienne’s home.  General Washington stands beside Alex and John, and although all three of them are well and truly proper, they still stand like they’ve done nothing but scrub floors a sit at a window for the past year.  Mary tries to force a smile.  “Hello,” she greets softly.  

Her husband doesn’t really respond much.  Just stare at her blankly while Alex lifts the fingers of his right hand and wiggles them in the air. “Hi.”  Washington, for his part, continues to seem rather confused.  Something that Mary doesn’t concern herself with. 

“I’m John’s wife,” she explains, and the expression clears. 

A startled laugh builds in his throat and he nods at her.  Slowly and with his lips turning upward.  “It seems we all married well,” he muses.  John snorts, and Mary rolls her eyes. 

“So it seems,” she replies.  Stepping passed them, she makes her way to the empty kitchen.  Snatches a basket that had been made up for her already.  The first time someone made  _ her  _ a basket of something in a long while.  It’s been done properly though.  Adrienne’s requirements are exact.  And more than that, there are other belongings and items of importance that the others will be able to take with them. 

The house was good, and served its purpose, but it’s over now.  And time to leave.  Taking a deep breath, she returns to the others.  “Are you ready?”  They nod.  “We cannot leave by carriage, it will draw too much attention this late at night, and hopefully all eyes are on Adrienne.  However, I go to inspect the new arrivals for the greenhouse and kitchens every day at this time, and occasionally will have help assist me.” 

“And we will be your help today?” Washington surmises.  She tips her head to the door. 

“Precisely.  Are you ready?” It doesn’t really matter if they’re not.  They need to leave now.  And so they do.  Mary blows out the candles that have remained lit after Adrienne’s departure, and they leave.  Closing the door behind them.    

Fog has settled around London.  The streets coated with a light white screen that shrouds them all like ghosts.  Adrienne had requested this time to leave for this very reason.  Should anyone peer through the gloom, they will see shadows moving.  Shadows and little more.  Faces are made obscure.  Features are blurred.  They slide into the darkness and do not reappear. 

Behind her, Mary can hear the men moving.  Can feel their presence like pin pricks along her spine.  She holds her basket of supplies and she keeps walking forward.  Listening for the sound of a bell.  For the sound of panic and terror to rise up and settle through the city.  Martha had finished her task prior to returning to Adrienne’s home, but Angelica hadn’t been there.  She hadn’t been waiting with the others.  And she should have been. 

She missed her opportunity to see them all off, and she will likely spend the next several months to  _ years  _ away from the very people she has risked life and limb to save.  The war, Mary knows, is going to happen whether anyone likes it or not.  Will has been mumbling about it furiously for ages now, and even Adrienne was resigned to its presence. 

Mary had clung to the letter Lord North gave her, allowing her to travel on this ship.  Leaving her duties in order to attend Will on his journey.  North had no notion as to what kind of freedom he was giving her, but he’d made the arrangements regardless.  Accepted her resignation with a weary sigh and muttered about needing to find a new flower girl.  She’d been a hard worker for Lord North.  But she needed his approval to become dismissed, and he’d given it.  

She was free to leave.  

Her only concern being that her  _ freedom  _ did not lead her to France.  Her daughter still lived in Adrienne’s home.  And she has no notion of when she’ll see her again.  She’s sailing with John.  Needs to.  She has no excuse to board a ship to France, and with everything else that’s about to happen, she cannot risk being on the wrong ship at the wrong time.  

Mary had a relationship with Will.  Had an agreement with him.  He’s doing this for them.  He’s arranging this mess, using John Church’s shipping manifests, to smuggle them out.  His is a ship that leaves and arrives each day.  A ship that’s been given a charter to add new and fresh supplies to the palace greenhouse.  Bring new life and color onto the grounds.  

They keep walking forward. 

The sun will rise soon.  An hour, maybe two, and its light will coat over the town.  Mary breathes in.  She lets it out.  She adjusts her hold on her basket, and she tries to imagine what her daughter will look like when she sees her again.  She’ll likely speak incredible French.  She’ll be a proper lady after spending so much time in court.  Dressed in good clothes and fierce, Mary hopes, like Adrienne. 

Eliza will be with her too, though.  Perhaps she’ll benefit from Eliza’s tender heart.  Her sweet nature.  Her gentle words and lasting kindness.  Any child raised by Eliza would know they were loved.  Mary hopes Frances always knew she was loved.  John had written letters in the past.  But they’d always been stilted.  Formal.  And now it feels as though once more time has turned him away.  He’s missing his chance to see her too.  

_ But he’s alive,  _ Mary breathes out into the night.   _ He’s alive, and he has a chance to see her one day.   _ Maybe not now.  Maybe not for a long time.  But he’s alive and he’s capable.  They have an opportunity now they didn’t have yesterday.  Mary will hold onto that opportunity for as long as she can.  Burning the image in her mind. 

John with Frances, with her nearby.  Watching as he finally gets to see his daughter.  Finally gets to see, with empirical evidence, that all of their trials and tribulations had been worth it in the end.  They may not have planned to create a child together, but by happy accident—they created the most beautiful and wonderful child of them all. 

Voices start up ahead, and Mary hesitates.  “Get in the alley,” she hisses to the men behind her.  They go immediately.  Ducking between buildings and pressing up against a wall, shadows swallowing them whole.  They do it it just in time.  There, emerging from the fog, is Sergeant Smith. 

He has his rifle at his shoulder, and is walking slowly.  Sedately.  Coming back from post, or perhaps going to his station.  Mary doesn’t know.  She’s not spent much time around the man.  They’ve interacted, of course.  Anyone who works around the Tower has  _ interacted  _ with Smith.  But she doesn’t have his schedule memorized. 

Mary forces a smile.  Mumbles a “G’day,” and keeps walking forward.  Nothing to see here.  No need for alarm.  Her heels echo along the cobblestone.  A clip-clop not unlike horse hooves.  Smith steps past her.  Stops.  She keeps walking.  Doesn’t look back.  Doesn’t dare to breathe.  

He’s stopped right at the mouth of the alley where John, Alex, and Washington are hiding.  Just a brief turn to the right.  A step into the darkness, and he’ll see them.  They’re right there.  And of everyone they could have met tonight  _ Smith  _ would most likely be able to recognize them.  Recognize Alex. 

He’d had no beard to shave to start with.  His face stayed clean and washed throughout his captivity.  Smith had delighted in terrorizing Alex.  Mary heard the stories even so far removed as she was.  She keeps walking.  

“Stop,” Smith commands.  She stops.  Her breath is in her throat.  She feels her arms tighten around her basket.  Instead of turning to the alley, though, Smith returns to her.  Walks toward her.  Rifle slipping from his shoulder to lay loose in his hand.  Held outright like a walking stick or staff.  Mary meets his eyes.  “You’re early today,” he tells her.

“Ship sets sail at dawn,” she finds herself replying.  Her voice cracks along the edges.  She’s not in trouble.  He doesn’t know what she’s done.  Everything is fine.  He steps closer.  “I should get going.  Don’t want to be late.” 

“Like I said...you’re early today.”  There had been rumors a plenty when Smith had returned to work after what happened with John.  Covered in bruises and foul mouthed as usual.  He’d taken to snapping and scowling at anyone he didn’t like.  Gaining an even more notorious reputation toward violence than usual. 

He’d been scared off his primary targets, talk of threats being levied against him abound.  Smith stepped in closer.  She retreats, but his hand reaches out and snatches her arm.  Squeezes tight.  “Let me go.”  The fog will only persist for so long.  Once the sun starts cutting through the air, the fog will lift and they will be forced to travel in the open air.  

Alex and John’s disappearance will be discovered soon.  Breakfast will soon arrive for Washington.  Angelica will be in the final steps of her own game, and everything will be  _ ruined  _ if they are not on a ship and leaving within the next hour.  They are running out of time.  

“You don’t tell me what to do girl,” Smith tells her sharply.  He shoves her back, hand still tight around her arm, then pulls her forward.  Her basket slips loose.  Falling to the ground.  Flowers and food for their journey tumbling out.  He looks to it.  Sneering.  “Stealing food?” he asks. 

“Given--I was given--let me go!” she can’t scream.  Can’t raise her voice.  If she does, it’ll draw attention, and they can’t have more eyes on the street.  More people crowding the lonely lane.  Smith growls and presses her up against the back of a wall.  She scrambles.  Fingers trying to pull at his arm.  

“You don’t tell me what to do!” he growls in her face.  He raises his rifle, bayonet sharp and terrifying, as if he intends to strike her with it here and now.  Mary’s mouth goes dry.  This isn’t fair. This isn’t—

“Get your  _ fucking hands  _ off my wife,” John hisses.  Smith turns.  It’s too late for him.  John’s fingers snap forward and hold firm to Smith’s head.  He twists with the Sergeant’s own momentum, kicking his legs out at the same time. 

A horrible crack cuts through the air, and Mary watches numbly as John releases the body.  As it falls to the ground in a slump.  Wide eyes staring up at them in abject confusion.  John spits.  Saliva landing on Smith’s face.  It’s not enough.  He rears his foot back and kicks.  Again.  And again.  And again. 

Until Washington physically pulls John back.  Whispering “That’s enough.  That’s enough.  John.  That’s enough.”  Her husband breathes hard.  Trembling as he stares at the newly made corpse.  

“Are you all right?” he asks.  Mary cannot bring herself to say.  She looks at him.  Struggles to catch her breath.  Finally, he lifts his eyes to meet her gaze.  There’s something feral about his countenance.  “Martha.  Are you all right?” 

“Y-yes.” He nods curtly.  Alex is already bending down to drag Smith’s body.  Hauling him back into the alley.  Slipping into the darkness and not reappearing for several long moments.  In that time, John’s collected her basket.  Every flower and fruit and crust of bread.  He collects everything and walks it to her.  Presses it into her hands while Washington secures the rifle.  He shouldn’t have killed Smith.  But there is nothing to be said about that now.  She nods her head at him.  She takes her basket. “Thank you.”  

Gone is the boy who used to sit with her in a field and let her place dandelion flower crowns on his head.  Gone is the boy who sighed about Francis Kinloch and dream of a happy tomorrow.  Gone is the boy. 

He holds out his hand.  She takes it.  

It’s a long walk to the ships, and they need to go. 

For the first time in years, he's here for her too. 

Washington loops the rifle over his shoulder, and walks as if he’s meant to carry it.  His back unbends as he moves.  His strides elongate.  It is as if he’s stretching himself back into position.  They’ve had their rest now.  The fun is over. 

Back to the war. 

Mary can see the night sky starting to turn a pale blue.  Stars all gone in the gloom.  The smell of the Thames rises up to meet them, and slowly yet surely--they emerge by the river.  Will’s ship is just ahead, and with their heads ducked low, they walk.  Up the gangplank, over the edge. 

She’s familiar with various members of the crew.  Has done business with them on orders from North.  But this ship is Will’s in its entirety.  The captain meets her, tells her that they’ll be shoving off now that they’re here.  Directs them to go down below where they will be able to rest.  Their benefactor will be along shortly.  

Thanking him, she leads the others down below.  Listens as John mumbles to Alex about their last voyage.  She misses what he says, but hears Washington snort indelicately.  Clearly amused.  Mary can only wonder what he’d said.  Pressing open a door to the cabin she knew was set aside for their use, she ushers them in.  Has them sit down.  

For her part, her knees give.  She practically collapses onto the nearest cot.  Breathing hard.  The others, at least, seem similarly situated.  Alex and John both sit shoulder to shoulder.  Breathing hard.  She can see Alex’s fingers trembling.  John’s eyes are closed as he struggles to keep his breathing even. 

They don’t say what she’s trying not to say.  _  We won.   _ They don’t give birth to the words.  It’s for the best.  They haven’t even left harbor yet.  Up above, the sailors are calling for lines to be cast off.  For everyone to get into position.  Mary can see the sun starting to rise out the cabin window.  Water rocks the ship.  They start leaving the city.  A loud voice booms up above, heavily accented and irritated.  Will.  

Washington, John, and Alex all look up in unison.  Alex’s eyes are blinking rapidly.  Like he is trying to process something entirely outside his realm of comprehension.  Thundering feet on stairs.  The cabin door bursts open, and they all jump at the noise.  “Son of a—” John cuts himself off. 

In a mad rush of furious French, Will towers over them all.   _ “What the fuck have you all been doing for the past year?  Fucking sleeping?  Look at you!  Slackers all.”  _ Washington’s mouth opens and closes.  But then his shoulders start to hitch up and down.  Laughter bubbling deep within his chest.  John starts laughing as well, and Alex soon joins in. 

He stands, looking undeniably narrow compared to Will’s towering and impressively wide figure. “Baron Von Steuben…” Alex whispers, ragged voice giving all it can give.  “It’s good to see you  _ alive. _ ” 

_ “War’s not done,”  _ Friedrich Wilhelm Von Steuben tells Alex firmly.  He waggles a finger in front of Alex’s face.   _ “How dare you think I’d lay down my sword until it is.”  _ He then promptly pulls Alex to his chest like a bear to her cub, and allows his thick cloak to swallow Alex whole.  Looking up to Washington, he continues.   _ “It’s high time we kill those lily-livered-pig-cowards.”  _

“Apologies, sir, but my French was not improved in the Tower,” Washington replies carefully. 

“He said,” John starts.  Just as the first sounds of ravens cawing fill the belly of their ship.  He catches her eye, and she grins.  The legend echoing between them.   _ England will fall.  _   “We’ve got a war to win, let’s move along.” 

More or less. 

Alex snorts.  

Washington holds out his hand.  “I do think it’s high past time we saved our country.”  The ravens caw louder.  It could be her imagination, but Mary thinks they sound like cheers.   _ Hip-hip-hooray! Hip-hip-hooray! _

_ Hip-hip-hooray!  _


	30. Angelica

In the end, Angelica is already at the ship by the time Adrienne’s carriage arrives.  Her bags have been packed.  Her belongings in storage.  Queen Charlotte and she had spoken well throughout the day.  They shared many stories of their time together, they gave each other fond blessings.  They dreamed of a tomorrow that would benefit them all.    

Prince George came in and out occasionally.  Bored, it seems.  “Cherish the time you have with your children,” Charlotte told Anglica sadly.  “They grow up far too fast.”  It’s a concept that Angelica is more than aware of already.  Her own son feels like he’s already a little man.  He acts like one too. 

Church has already sent her a letter, informing her that he’s arrived in Paris and is safe.  The children are happy.  They’re out of the way and well protected.  Angelica just prays that they are able to stay that way.  She watches as Adrienne’s carriage arrives.  As the door opens and Martha and Eliza step out.  Assisting Adrienne and Lafayette.  Pierre stepping from the driver’s bench where he’d gallantly situated himself.  

Lafayette’s body is still curled forward.  Sweat slides down his face.  He’s trembling and ill.  Will need more valerian for the pain, and good rest soon.  The doctors in France will tend to him with the utmost level of care and consideration. Adrienne truly hopes that he will find satisfaction there.  Health. 

He stumbles up the gangplank, and she holds out a hand to him.  Helping him to his cabin.  It is not a long voyage.  They’ll be in France before the sun passes noon.  He should be interred in a good lodge by the end of the day.  “How are you feeling, my friend?” she asks him.

“Like I’ve made a prophecy for myself that I’ll never be rid of,” he replies.  “Take my touch, my taste, my smell…” he trails off.  But she doesn’t understand the meaning.  Doesn’t know how how best to comfort him.  He lays back on the cot in his cabin.  Closes his eyes and shivers in silence.  Fetching a blanket, she pulls it over his body.  Up to his shoulders. 

Adrienne is just behind her.  Watching nervously.  Unsettled and displeased.  Stepping forward, she kisses her husband on the lips.  Whispers to him softly for a moment in French, before standing up and motioning for Angelica to let him be.  He needs to rest.  Recuperate.  Get better.  

Returning topside, Angelica pulls her shawl more firmly around her shoulders.  The Marquise as moved to stand at the side of the ship.  Hands pressed against the railing as she stares out toward the heart of London.  The sun crests the horizon, and the ship starts to pull from the dock.  There are two others already on the river.  They’re all headed east.  “Did you ever think it would end this way?”  Angelica asks. 

Eliza and Martha are huddled not far away.  Talking to each other in low voices.  Sharing a gief only they can know.  To have saved their husbands, but still be separated from them after all this time.  All this effort.  “From the beginning,” Adrienne confirmed.  

Air hisses from between her lips.  She leans more heavily on her palms.  Angelica steps closer.  Their arms pressed against each other.  The silence, Angelica thinks, is where the anxiety lurks.  The anticipation of not knowing.  Of waiting.  Of playing your hand time and time again. 

The bells start to ring. 

Adrienne closes her eyes.  A small smile forming at her lips.  Shouts start to build in the city.  The bells ring louder and louder.  They echo down the river as they sail away.  Bells and bells and bells.  Ringing so loud that it almost drowns out the screaming.  Shouts rising up in the streets. 

They leave the city limits.  Are now firmly on their way to the North Sea.  Eliza and Martha come to stand at Adrienne’s side.  Watching and waiting.  The final moments of her many months of scheming coming to fruition at long last.  “Which ship is Alexander’s?” Eliza asks.  

There are sails all around them.  But Angelica recognizes Church’s vessel.  Knows its markings.  “ _ The Libertine,”  _ she replies.  Irony having always been at the heart of this story.  And Irony persisting still to this moment. 

“And Monsieur Jefferson is in  _ The Santa Maria,”  _ Adrienne continues.  Two ships.  One heading north, following the coast of England and onward to Prussia.  One south, intending to travel through the English Channel to the Atlantic.  Where it will cross the ocean to America. 

Their captain steers them south.  “We’re being followed,” Pierre announces.  And he tells the truth.  Behind them there are two navy vessels hurrying their way.  The only two ships that the King kept stationed in London for emergency purposes.  The remainder of his navy stationed at the mouth of the Thames and along the sides of the channel.  They were prepared for a French invasion, not for chasing smugglers out of London. 

“They’ll hail us,” Pierre warns. 

Adrienne is undeterred.  “Keep sailing.” 

“Marquise—”

“—Keep sailing.”  She says it even as she turns.  Goes to climb the stairs to the ship’s wheel.  The Captain nods to her as she arrives, and she takes her position at the rear watching as they are being pursued.  The King’s ships have two choices.   _ They  _ are the obvious first choice.  Now, it’s left or right.  North or south.  Which vessel to chase.  Alexander's or Jefferson's. 

“Go south...go south…” Adrienne is murmuring under her breath.  Licking her lips as she prays.  Angelica takes her hand.  Eliza takes her other.  Martha on the end.   _ Go south.  Go south.  Turn right.  Turn right.  _

Alexander’s ship starts its passage into the North Sea.  They haven’t stopped or faltered.  They’re on charter from the King.  They’re a standard route.   _ Go south, _ Angelica prays as she stares at the King’s navy.   _ Go south.  _

Jefferson’s ship is wrapping around the island.  Turning into the English Channel.  Following a route that is too fast and too uncertain.  It’s the fastest ship they’d had at port.  It had been a sudden decision to leave.  A quick choice and one that was hastily planned.  _  Go south.  Go south.  _

_ Go south.  _

The King's vessels make their choice. 

They both go south.   Adrienne’s breath stutters out of her.  She almost collapses against the banister, but she is supported on all sides.  They will not let her fall or falter.  Not after everything that she has done for them.  They won’t.

They sail on, and the King’s navy follows them.  Follows Jefferson.  And as for  _them..._ their vessel is not equipped nor prepared to outrun a military ship.  They are slow and languid, and they’re caught easily.  But it doesn’t matter.  They have nothing to hide.  Adrienne waits until the final moment she can, then instructs the Captain to slow for the English.  

Calais is just there on the horizon.  More than that.  The French fleet is just on the horizon.  Watching and waiting for them to bring Lafayette home.  Lines are thrown from the  _ HMS Boyle  _ to Adrienne's ship.  Boards are settled between the vessels.  General Clinton marches forth.  “What is the meaning of this?” Pierre snaps, meeting him the moment that his feet touch down.

Clinton is in no mood to argue.  He towers over Pierre.  Leaning down over him with every intention of showing his strength and dignity.  Spitting out, “Where are they?” as loud as he can. 

“Who?” Pierre asks, and Angelica could honestly believe he sounded confused.  He’s still fuming angrily.  Glaring at Clinton and seeming for all the world that he wouldn’t mind striking the man here and now.  Adrienne walks down the stairs to the deck.  

Athena herself couldn’t have looked more composed.  “Problem?” Adrienne asks.  

“George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, and John Laurens have all gone missing,” Clinton shouts.  Eliza translating immediately and without pause.  “The King and Queen are  _ dead!”  _

That was it then.  The final piece of the puzzle.  The last remaining hope that had been reliant entirely on chance.  Martha’s cake, imbued with Mary’s oleander and poppy grinds, secured and suggested by Angelica, and in the end—ordered and retrieved by Queen Charlotte herself.  A different servant would have brought it from the kitchens.  So many cakes were baked and made, that there would have been no way to trace which hand it came from.  Who had been involved.  

King George had shut himself up in his study.  Had demanded that no one disturb him.  No one...save his wife.  Who opened the door in hopes of calming his rancor.  Who closed it to servants who knew not to enter without permission.  Who were trained to wait hours if they needed to.  Waiting for permission that in the end, they’d never get.

In truth, Angelica is sad Charlotte had chosen to share that final meal with her husband.  That she had hated that cake and its presence, and yet still tried to enjoy it with him.  Make him happy.  She was too loyal for a man who never once seemed to care.  “The King and Queen are  _ dead?”  _ Adrienne asks.  She looks to Eliza to confirm, and receives several quick nods. 

Murmurs start amongst the crew.  Everyone’s trying to understand what’s happened.  “Please…” Adrienne invites.  “Inspect my ship.” 

Clinton does.  And he takes his time. 

He tears through each cabin. Demands they open each box.  Reveal each dresser.  Clothes are pulled from drawers.  Cabinets are rustled.  Food stores are upended.  Adrienne stands still through it all, squeezing Eliza and Martha’s hands as Angelica positions herself at their sides.  Someone asks why she’s on the ship, and she tells them of her husband.  Of his mission to promote friendship between their countries.  Of how Queen Charlotte had  _ asked  _ her to be here. 

And through it all...they wait. 

King Louis is not a fool.  He loathed the English and their pompiety.  He disparaged them as much as he could.  But he wasn’t a fool.  He didn’t go to war with another country unless he was set to gain from such endeavors.  Even so. It didn’t mean he would willingly back down when he felt his involvement was necessary. 

As Clinton tears their vessel apart, Angelica watches as a  _ fleet  _ from Calais approaches. Guns and ships approaching en masse, more than happy to send Clinton back to London in pieces if they had to.  The Marquis had been promised safe passage home, and as far as it must appear to those in France...England is reneging on that deal. 

Lafayette is prodded out of bed, he stands now against Pierre’s side.  Fever turning him dizzy and uncoordinated.  But no matter how determined he is, Clinton will never find what is not there to find.  Alexander, Washington, and John are well and truly gone by now.  And there is no proof, nor evidence, nor smoking gun to say that anyone aboard this vessel was responsible for the deaths of King George and Queen Charlotte. 

“We already received word to leave London,” Pierre tells Clinton stiffly.  “We had no reason to stay.  And as you can see, we have nothing to hide.”  There are cannons aimed at the HMS Boyle.  There are Frenchmen eager for a fight.  There’s a war brewing the the English Channel, and Clinton knows as well as they do.  Now is not the time.

He tells them that they should expect to hear from ‘them’  _ very  _ soon, and departs.  Leaving the area around their ship and departing.  It’s going south.  To check in with their sister vessel and see if they’ve had better luck.  

“What _was_ __ in the crate you gave Jefferson?” Angelica asks as the French escort their ship safely to Calais. 

“Shoes,” Adrienne replies breathlessly.  “Shoes and shoes and shoes.” 

Angelica can’t help it, and neither can anyone else, she starts to laugh.  Somewhere in the English Channel, Jefferson will be under the impression he’s been responsible for saving his General’s life.  He will be boarded by a british ship, and he will defend his boxes of shoes.  Defend them for as long as he can. 

Somewhere in the English Channel, Jefferson will be told of what’s happened.  He will be terrified to think he’s about to be implicated in it all.  And he will be forced to explain why he was so protective over nothing so spectacular.  Just a collection of shoes, and the misconception about how important he was.  

Alexander and the others would never have escaped without him.  And yet likely...he’ll never know just how pivotal he’d been at the end of it all.  It’s funny.  So Angelica laughs.  Heart gladdened for the first time in a very long while.  Baron Van Steuben had delighted her plan.  She's so happy that it worked. 

***

It takes almost another month before the Lafayettes arrive home.  King Louis kept his promise.  His doctors attended to Lafayette the moment they could.  Examining and binding his arm.  Discussing pain and fatigue.  Sensation and consideration. 

Traveling so ill would be foolish.  And so they restrict themselves to Versailles.  They stay there and they listen as reports come in from England.  As rumors start to fly.  Mad King George, who many believed, killed himself and his wife after the shame of his actions.  He always kept poisonous flowers throughout the palace. 

There had to have been a reason.

Maybe this was why. 

They do receive word from Will once he and the others arrived in Prussia.  Informing them that his new gardeners are of particularly quality stock and they need not worry about their garden.  Soon it will be entirely de-weeded, and ready for new flowers of their own to be planted.  Sometimes, he admits in his letter, you just need to burn the ground first.  Enrich the soil from the ashes left behind. 

Good luck is all they can say, though it hardly seems like enough.

It takes time for the Lafayettes to return home.  And when they do, taking their whole retinue with them, their chateau is unlike anything that Angelica has ever seen.  The grounds are remarkable.  Beautiful stonework and sparkling walls.  The flooring is unique and charming, and she cannot help but marvel at all the wonders. Imagination running on without her. 

There are children here, too. 

Anastasie and Georges scream their father’s name.  They run to him.  Hugging him.  Loving him.  He folds before them.  After more than a year as a prisoner, defiant until the end, Lafayette is brought to his knees by two babes.  Hardly old enough to walk on their own.  Georges crawling up his body and hanging from his neck.  Anastasie holding up her arms, desperate to be held. 

Lafayette crumbles before them.  He stays on the ground and he kisses their cheeks.  He hugs them tight.  He gives them leave to do with him as they like.  Angelica imagines they could kill him now, and he would thank them for it.  So grateful to see their faces as the last sight he sees before death. 

Angelica is distracted from Lafayette by her own family.  By her husband, son, and daughter.  By reuniting and knowing that they are all safe at last.  All together one last time.  She hugs them close.  Gives thanks for all her blessings.  And finally starts to feel the truth build up inside of her. 

_ We won.  We won.  We won.  We won! _

But just as the joy lifts, there is also sadness.  Because while their families are complete.  There are so many others that aren’t.  Little Frances Laurens.  Quiet and confused.  Thumb between her teeth.  She hold the skirt of her nanny.  And it is Eliza who takes her in.  Who tells her that her parents are together.  Fighting a war.  They’ll be back for her soon.  She hold Frances from the moment she sees her, until well after dark, until it’s time for Frances to go to bed.  And even then, Eliza settles her.  Combs her fingers through the girl’s hair.  Promises everything is going to be all right. 

Perhaps that’s what keeps Angelica up at night.  What has her slipping from her husband’s arms and roaming through the chateau on her own.  Drifting from window to window.  Door to door.  Trying to settle the anxiety and the uncertainty that has been a part of their lives for so long...and that now lays strangely silent in her heart. 

She feels as if the world has tipped on its axis, but hasn’t yet turned over.  As if they have been building for a moment, and yet that moment has yet to arrive.  As if there’s something more yet to do, and their time is not yet done. 

Wood taps against wood.  Quiet and subtle.  Angelica doubts she’d have even heard it if it had been during the day.  But here, at night, when all the house is quiet, the tapping echoes like a ghost in the dark.  She follows the sound into a small library.  A fire burning in a stove nearby, Adrienne at a chessboard.  Holding pieces in her hands.  

“It’s late,” Angelica tells her.  

“I couldn’t sleep,” she replies.  She doesn’t look up.  Just keeps looking at the pieces.  Moving them this way and that.  Analyzing and plotting.  Angelica steps forward.  Settles into the chair across from her, and watches Adrienne play. 

She has a talent for this.  Seems to find even a level of peace and calm in it.  “There’s a war starting in America,” Angelica murmurs.  Adrienne could very easily make a difference there. 

“My priority is my family,” Adrienne replies.  She slides her queen into position.  Check-mate. 

“Your husband will most likely go to America.”  He’s already started trying to see what mobility he can gain with is arm.  See how far he can push and what he can manage.  He’s going to have a long road to recovery, and much of it will need to be a matter of compensation more than anything else.  His left hand will need to take priority over his right. 

Adrienne doesn’t seem too concerned with that.  “He’ll be training for months to become fit for duty.  We have time.”  Time to plot time to plan.  Find out what comes next.  

She starts sweeping pieces off the board.  Organizing them by color. “How do you feel about everything?” Angelica asks her softly.  

The younger woman smiles.  

The second war starts like the last one ended.  Calmly.  Quietly.  With blood on their hands and confusion in the streets.  The Marquise resets her game as Angelica watches.  “There, isn’t that better now?” Adrienne asks sardonically.  “Things are done.”  King George refused to listen to the calls of his people, and now the decision has been taken entirely out of his hands. “The king is dead,” she says, as she holds up the most important piece of the game.  Then, placing it down where it belonged, she grins.  “Long live the king.” 

*****End Book 1*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay first thing's first - Thank you so much for following me through this journey. This story has been amazingly fun to write and I'm so happy that you enjoyed it. The good news - I'm working on making this a publishable book that I hope to put out into the world as an official series. The bad news - this will take me some time. So bear with me. 
> 
> I'd like to give a special call out to my two friends, Asexual_Octopus and Elfyne who both read and commented and contributed to this story. Who listened to me ramble about it and who put up with my endless research questions and excitements. I am so grateful to you both. 
> 
> As for the sequel, I am not currently writing it at this moment. It's going to take a long time for me to craft and get perfect, but I'm plotting and I'm doing research, and I'm taking notes. I hope to start posting it sometime in October if not sooner. But please be patient. 
> 
> I am always willing to take questions and asks or prompts. I have a list started for one-shots in this verse to fill in the time that you all couldn't see because of changes in perspectives, feel free to drop me a line. 
> 
> Thank you again, and I'm so happy to have been able to share this with you. 
> 
> Best wishes, and I'm holding you all in the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to find me on Tumblr: falcon-fox-and-coyote.tumblr.com


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